Strongest of Nations
by Kyrosumi san
Summary: Everyone has some sort of beef with Russia. But when America takes a gamble that baffles the world, will he uncover the reasons behind everyone's grudge?
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own Hetalia. It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz, and I take no credit for the characters or places or habits or anything. Thank you. _

_And also, this book is set in a couple different points of view. The start of this chapter is set in second person, so try and imagine that YOU are that person. Most of this will be written in third person, though._

1. Baltic States, England, A Supposed Hero and a Crazy Younger Sister

This was not a place to take a leisurely stroll. This was not a place for one to simply walk outside in a drunken confusion, the three-quarters-empty bottle of clear liquid falling out of your hands as the world tilts this way and that, everything blurry. It wouldn't have mattered if you could see, everything was grey and white, except for a few trees. Because the trees were the only swaying thing you can see, you make your way toward them, and they crumble in your sight, and so does the snow, which cushions your fall. Anyone who might see you would snicker at your drunkenness and leave you to die, because they know the world would be better without you, they're scared of you and just want to be free…

Latvia wouldn't save you. Belarus might, though. Or worse, Belarus might do horrible things to you while you're asleep, this thought jolts you and you try to stand again to get out of the cold, out of the snow, but sorrow and heavy drinking keeps you down.

And you sleep alone in this snow-covered land. Possibly never to wake again. And when you sleep, you dream of sunflowers, or mainly the sun in general. Both things painfully absent in this harsh land, somewhere that is so cold and so ridden with it's own inescapable past that you wish never to wake up, because there is almost no one to wake up with, or anyone to wake you entirely.

Because you are alone. You are Russia. A strong, feared nation of the world, yet so weak with loneliness and cold that the façade of a strong nation might crumble as easily as stacked playing cards. And since you know this, yet you struggle to wrap your head around it, it gives you more reason to lay in the snow, alone. If you wake you know it will be the same world out there, the same cold Russia that you are. Nothing can change the fact that it's too cold for life to sprout in such a place. Nothing will change the fact you have no one by your side- or no willing, helpful friends you long for. The time does not flow in your mind as you sleep. You wake twice, each time it being two different times of day, once night, the other early morning. Time can pass without Russia ever noticing, and so you let it pass, because you are Russia, and Russia's past might swallow it's time all together.

And you let it. You let it stand on the brink of the edge, waiting for it to swallow and the past of a hopeful Soviet Union, innocent children and dead soldiers crumble to dust. With it you will be all but forgotten, but still present, much like the glorious Roman Empire.

_Meanwhile-_

You walk through the snow. You like the energy flowing through your body, energy of a young country still filled with the same hope and bravery that won it's freedom. You also like the company of your worst enemy but deepest companion, a blonde-haired green-eyed England who was not enjoying the weather in the least. This makes you laugh. Because you are cold, but there are cold areas in your country, so you try to stand it but the truth of the matter is you experience the piercing cold the same way England does, and you want to gripe as much as he is, though pride swallows the wish because you are America, and the want to be superior washes away all sense of cold to make yourself appear tough to your friend. It makes the cold worthwhile.

The truth of their journey was awfully confusing to you. You don't know why England insisted upon visiting Russia, or why he had thought of that crazy man at all. In the back of your head, a small part that you often ignore, you know it's because the Axis are falling apart and England wants to keep these countries together as much as possible. Even though the bond between them was already as frail as China glass, you tell yourself you'll do your best to be friendly around Russia, confident that France and China would turn up to visit soon as well. In an even smaller part of your brain, you wonder if Canada will be there as well, but that part of your head is reserved for critical thinking, therefore it's not used often and thus ignored.

Most of your brain is occupied on the house you approach. It's a nice enough house, you think, but it isn't at all what you might've expected. You expected a shack in the middle of the woods with the windows cracked and the walls cold cement, with makeshift curtains that probably came from towels. Instead the house tucked back of the woods could've been easily described as a mansion, was made with brick and many windows with a couple chimneys spitting black smoke. Inside the lights from the windows illuminated against the grey sky hold a place inside looking decorated and well-kept. Even England is surprised visibly- which was huge. He tried to make a point of hiding his shock from you, but you already saw it, and smirk. At least you don't have to be scolded for being presumptuous, or something. You are both surprised.

"Well," says England as the two of you mount the porch. "I think we can expect a good welcome. I do admit, you might have an easier time in this house, being friends with both of Russia's sisters."

Ukraine and Belarus. You mouth hints a bit of a smile. Both of them had different aspects that made them likeable- Ukraine was just easy to pick out of a group, and Belarus? What a _babe. _You're excited to see them both as England rings the doorbell.

A cheery sound fills the air, drowning out the sound of a harsh wind rolling up, and the door swings open. A young man's face fills the gap of a cracked door- he's not much older than you are. It was Lithuania, his light brown hair framed his face, which had always made it a little hard for you to tell if he was a boy or a girl. He wore a green uniform about the same color as England's- but fitted with a tie and didn't have the belt across it. He didn't look comfortable at all, and you doubt he could be no matter what he wore. He seemed to be the type of thin that showed he had often skipped meals from being so frightened, and his face was shrouded in dark circles. Loss of sleep, you think. You know there was no way you would sleep here either if you ended up staying the night.

Relief seemed to wash over Lithuania's face, and the door opened wider. "Good afternoon," he stammered. He was trembling, as usual. "Please, come inside. Latvia and Estonia are in the kitchen, and Belarus is in the dining room."

_That's where you'll find me,_ you think as you step inside. The warmth of the house is extremely comforting compared to the frostbitten outside.

The hallway was floored with a dark brown wood, and the walls were a golden-crème color. You try not to look at the grotesque paintings on the walls, which make you go ridged as Lithuania as your footsteps make hollow noises in step with you. Brass candle holders protrude from the walls and light the hallway in dim patches, and it doesn't take long for you to realize that even though the house is spick and span, it wasn't the glistening-clean as England's house or France's- it was the barren, forgotten clean that reminds you that you are anything but alone. Fear grips you as you march down the hallway behind Lithuania, waiting for Russia to jump out of any corner, wielding a Tetris block or something. You swallow.

"Erm, Lithuania?" England's voice has a sort of worried pitch. You're relieved you're not the only one who's scared. "Where exactly is Russia? And I caught that you didn't mention Ukraine. Is she not here either?"

Lithuania slowed down a bit and looked hurriedly over his shoulder. "Uh," he stammered, his voice not reaching an octave above a whisper. "Russia is running a bit late. And Ukraine won't be coming- her boss doesn't allow it."

"Aw…" you say, honestly disappointed. You cheer up almost instantly, though, as you pass the dining room, catching a glimpse of the blonde Belarus as Lithuania leads you into one of the dens. Her hair was brushed into a navy-blue bow, and she was wearing a dress of the same color. The dress flounced out from where she sat due to an enormous number of petticoats, a lot like the fashion of the woman in your own country in the 1800's era. She wore an apron over it that was held up by a blue and white striped sash, secured in a gigantic bow just above her bottom.

England gets your attention rather well by preventing you from smacking into an ill-placed statue on the corner of the hallway. You sidle around it, disgusted, as Lithuania opens a door into the den, because you recognize it as one of the many communist party leader's heads. You never really understood communism- capitalism was definitely the way to go today. Maybe you could bring that up, you think, when Russia gets here…

_Even more meanwhile…_

"Latvia," Estonia scolded from where he stood at the kitchen sink. He accidentally left the water running, letting old spinach run down the faucet. "Why so jittery? You're supposed to be watching for Mr. Russia so we don't look completely stupid when he comes back."

Latvia didn't pay attention. With his finger, he scooped a lick of the icing off a certain cake sitting on the counter that Lithuania had prepared about an hour earlier. "So what? He probably got drunk or something an passed out in the woods." His raspy little voice was clogged a little bit from the sweet cream off the cake. "And if you ask me, good riddance."

"Stop that!" Lithuania came bursting into the kitchen, looking extremely worried. Latvia jumped away from the cake like it was an electric fence. Lithuania looked around frantically. "Did Russia come in this way?"

"No," Estonia said, and shut off the water. He dried his hands on his pants. "Lithuania, do you want to make some tea for our guests? France and China should be arriving soon, and that shy one that I can never remember…"

"Stupid!" Lithuania grabbed his face in horror. "Who cares about France? If Russia comes in and if he forgot that we were expecting the Allies, he's going to think we're invaded! And even worse, if he's drunk and sees America in here it's going to be another rerun of that _Sputnik _incident, only worse-"

"Relax, Lithuania," Latvia laughed. "If Russia's not back in an hour, we can send them home and Russia can find his way home by himself. When he gets back to find all the food laid out, he'll think we did it for him."

For a minute, there was silence, as it was a little tricky for Lithuania and Estonia to comprehend that Latvia hadn't rambled about something completely senseless for once- and for a second the two of them merely blinked at the small country as he picked his way back to the cake.

"…that's not a bad idea, Latvia," Estonia said proudly. "Good thinking." He cranked the egg timer for sixty minutes. "We'll send them home when it goes off. Sound good? In the meantime they can occupy themselves with arguing and tea. Lithuania, calm down. Latvia's got a point, Russia could be gone for days."

Lithuania's heart rate slowed for a fraction of a millisecond. Then he trembled again. "But with a bigmouth in the house like America and a drunken Russia coming home unannounced, we can only hope that those bombs left over from the eighties are well hid…"

Estonia snorted and pushed Lithuania out of the kitchen. "I really don't think he'd bomb someone in his own house. Now, go and tend to our guests. Latvia, keep watching out that window and alert me if you see him."

The door swung shut. Lithuania swallowed again, still incredibly unsteady, and he made his way down the hall again, but the door swept open a second time.

"Oh, and Lithuania?" It was Estonia. He had a serious expression. "Make sure Belarus doesn't find out Russia's missing. She'll got bonkers."

"R-right…" Lithuania whispered shakily. With a small whoosh, the door behind him closed. He walked down the dark hallways, straightening his uniform to try and look his best. "Hey, Belarus," he whispered into the dining room. Belarus, with her head probed up by one palm, toying with the knives set out on the table, was obviously gorgeous. He blinked.

She lifted her head, reviling the same strange, vacant lavender eyes she and her brother shared. They could look very alive, but that usually happened when she was chasing after her brother or trying to stab someone. She was a complete psychopath, but she was alright. "What is it?" Her accent was thick and elegant at the same time.

Lithuania fought for an answer. "Er…." He sought. "Russia told me to tell you to go wait upstairs in one of the guest rooms…" _Think, think. _

Her face sort of melted into a state of shock. The knife clattered onto the tabletop. "For… _him?_"

Lithuania didn't know the damage he was creating when he nodded uncontrollably, anything to prevent her from finding out that Russia was missing.

_Thump! _The chair tipped over behind her as she stood bolt upright from the table, her face a mix of determination and dizziness. She passed Lithuania in a dreamlike state and hobbled down the hallway, then up a set of stairs.

Lithuania's palm met his forehead and he leaned against the doorway. He thought about going after her, but nothing was going to convince her otherwise. He took a deep breath, shook out the memory best he could, then plunged into the living room where America and England quietly disputed something about the meal.

_Three cheers to me! My first Hetalia chapter- finished! Yay!_

_Also, if you have any confusion on the point-of-views, I'll just tell you I won't be using second person for a while now. The next chapter will most likely be entirely third-person. Don't ask me why I did it like that because I really don't know._

_Anyway, review please!_

**Actually, I've posted this before, and I thought I was never going to write fan fictions again. But a lot of people seemed to like it…sorta? So I'm putting it back up and possibly getting to finish it.**


	2. Chapter 2

_do not own Hetalia, Hidekaz Himaryu made it. I do not own the characters, places, events, habits, places, anything. Thanks to all those who inspire me! And please review if you read!_

2. Making Mistakes

"And dude," America said quickly. Anyone who was caring enough to listen would've said he needed to slow down when speaking, his words seemed to blur together. Everyone could agree that it wasn't as bad as Italy's constant ramble, but it was almost the same. He scooted closer to England on the couch, who managed to restrain himself from visibly cringing away. "I was thinking about getting a motorcycle when I get back home. Wouldn't that be, like, awesome? Couldn't you see a person like me on a nice, sleek black Harley?"

England set down Russia's excuse for tea. It wasn't that bad- but he didn't have enough milk or sugar, and he had been forced to take it practically black. America's question reminded him of the time he had presented England with an airplane crafted in the shape of a shark- positively ridiculous. "I don't think that's a good idea, America," he said grudgingly.

"Dude, why not?" America cried, clearly shocked. He always was when someone didn't agree with him.

"Well, one, the number of accidents on those contraptions are far worse than those automobiles nowadays," England explained calmly as America silently fumed over it. "And two, I already know you're not going to wear the proper headgear for the safety of the thing, which would only raise the risk factor. And with the cost of fuel going up more and more these days, it'd just be a waste of money."

America snorted. "Helmets are for losers. And gas has always been expensive. I'll have that thing in Libya sorted out in no time."

"Is that what your boss told you?" England grumbled into his cup, glad that America hadn't heard it. He glanced up to the little clock sitting on the mantel above the fire, and saw with a shock that in the time they had been waiting for France and China and Russia- who was their host- that the minute hand had made it halfway around the clock. "What's taking them so long?" He wondered. "It's been almost a half an hour."

"France is probably just fashionably early, as usual," America joked, and leaned back in his chair.

"Oh, stop that. You and I both know you would've completely forgot about this entire thing if you and I hadn't decided to come together," England snapped.

America leaned back in retort to England's harsh answer. "What's your problem, man? That's what he would've said."

England wasn't surprised that his teacup started to rattle as he glanced around the room. "You're right. I guess I'm just a little anxious because we're the only ones who have turned up so far. This is Russia's house and all, and no matter how pleasant it is, I can't understand why he hasn't joined us yet. China and France I can understand since both of them are probably caught up in something, but why wouldn't Russia be in his own home?"

America cross his arms. "He's probably making some nuclear weapon to chase me out with. He and China probably have some multi-billion dollar weapon down there ready to explode us straight to Siberia."

"Really, listen to you," said a rough voice. England and America looked up. "We came here to reunite the Allies, right? Not revisit that awful dispute from the eighties."

Standing in the doorway was a sleek-looking young man with a bit of a shadow under his chin and shining gold hair. He was dressed in a fancy pink suit- coral pink. Though neither America nor England could deny that France could pull it off, and even look good in it. He walked in with an air around him that smelled thickly of expensive cologne that could choke someone if too much was used- but of course France had on just the right amount. America gagged just to try and upset him, but he earn a wink as France sat himself between the two of them.

"And how is the adorable England these days?" France asked jeeringly, and he crossed his legs. "I haven't heard anything exciting about you lately. Still have that lady on your throne?"

England's cup made a loud clink as he set it on the table. America scooted down the best he could on the couch. "Yes, as a matter of fact. And she's doing quite well."

"She still hasn't decided who's going to succeed her, has she?" France continued. "Personally that adorable engaged couple deserves a shot at it before they get too old. Really, England, you can't expect her to decide all by herself."

England sighed. "I'm sure she'll do quite all right on her own. And besides. My politics aren't nearly as exciting as America's." England leaned over and smirked at the country. "Right, America?"

America's eyebrows knit. "Shut up."

"Oh, that's right! Those hooligans in Wisconsin really do create a riot, don't they?" France chuckled. "Take it from an experienced man. And calm down those Cheeseheads, really, or else they'll go on strike like _my _people."

England finished the tea at last. Obviously there was more in the kettle, and Lithuania had encouraged them to help themselves to it, but he didn't want to see rude. He left his empty cup on the table. "Why are you so late, France? Does Russia have anything to do with it?"

"Russia?" France looked around. "No. I thought I had missed him and you two were just waiting for me. Why, has he not shown up?"

"No," America grumbled. He slouched down on the couch almost to the point where his chin dipped onto his chest. "We've been waiting for hours."

"Sit up," England scolded. America didn't, as usual. "And it's barely been forty-five minutes now."

America mimicked him by mouthing his words and sneering, then letting his tongue slide out of his mouth. England ignored it.

"Well, with all that alcohol he drinks, he's probably having stomach problems. Who knows what that vodka does to your bowels-"

"_That's disgusting, France!" _America cried, jumping away from him, standing now. He backed up, hit the coffee table as he did, then glanced behind him. He sighed. "Listen, I'm really just sick of waiting here, dude. Can't we go home?"

"That would be incredibly rude," England said. "And besides. Some good can come out of this meeting if everyone shows up. I think we can all agree we need to spend a bit more time together, that way we won't all actually need to team up again."

"Dude, don't worry," America said. "There's _no way _I'm teaming up with Russia. EVER." He turned around and stepped around the coffee table, then walked up to the door to the living room and opened it.

"_America,"_ England gasped. "Really, you can't leave!"

"I'm not _leaving,_" America sighed. "I'm _hungry. _I was going to go see if they had some…I dunno. What's some good Russian food?"

France and England were silent. Neither of them knew. France chuckled. "You and your stomach, America. Really, it'd be too easy to starve you out in a war."

"Right," America said. He stepped outside. "I'm just going to go ask if they have anything I can eat. Is that okay, _mum?" _He was pointedly looking at England when he said this.

England's face went hot. He fumbled for words for a moment. "Alright. Well… go ahead I guess…"

"Cool," America confirmed, then disappeared through the door.

"It's really funny, you know," France pointed out. "Even after his independence he still waits for you to confirm his every action sometimes."

England wanted to deny it. "He was just being a smart-alec," he protested. "Immature. As always."

"Well, maybe that's your fault," France taunted. "For bringing him up like you did. All those scones you fed him when he was young probably made something go wrong with him. If I had brought him up, I'd still have him under my wing, even now."

England paused. He looked down at his hands. "I don't think so," he whispered.

France got a hold of England's suddenly serious attitude. He knew England was still a bit touchy on the Revolutionary War subject. The playful smile left his face. "Why is that?"

"He's too strong," England said. "His economy is horrible and his debt is huge, but even if someone like Russia were to attack him, he could still take him down."

France set his chin on his hand and softly smiled. "You're right. He's still young, We're all like that when we're young."

"That's true," England laughed. "But I don't know how much longer he's going to get away with being so arrogant. All the eastern nations could come at him, and somehow he'd come out on top, but how long will his energy last?"

"Come now, Britain," France laughed. "As long as he has something in his belly, he'll have enough energy to take them on. But you are right. Someone is going to get fed up with him at some point."

"He wouldn't listen if we told him to watch his back."

"No. But would you have listened to me at that age if I told you something like that?"

England laughed, and he nodded, relaxing a little. "You're right. And he'll have to make a few mistakes on his own." Going against his earlier judgment, he poured himself another cup of watery black tea.

Americapeeked around the corner carefully. He wouldn't ever admit that he was a little scared wandering around Russia's home by himself, but his stomach was leading him.

The dim hallways were long and tall, which was only suitable for a gargantuan country like Russia. He swallowed, walking past more of the horrifying paintings. Stuff like this didn't usually scare him, but most of them reminded him of a video game he had recently played, that had gave him nightmares. He wished he had stayed in the living room, not caring if France was in there or not. He didn't want to be in Russia's house without at least a gun, and when England had caught him lading his favorite to take with, he had made America put it back.

He wrung his grey hooded sweatshirt and stuck his hands in the front pocket. Nowadays he dressed more casually, in jeans and t-shirts rather than army uniform, but he didn't part with his leather jacket. He had worn it to Russia's house, but it was hanging up in some closet now.

"This is scary," America whispered to himself. A scratching noise came from the other end of the hallway. He could only guess that a place like Russia's was invested with rats- but the noise of their nails on the wood floor made America's entire body feel like a popsicle. The hollowness of Russia's home only added to the scariness of the situation, and America glanced behind him anxiously as the cracked living room door. The sound of chatter from France and England was dim, but still audible. He focused on that, and continued down the hallway in hopes of finding Lithuania or Estonia so they could lead him to food- but the only other conversation he could hear was coming from all the way down the hall.

_Thump! _America whirled around to the noise. His heart seemed to be it's echo, and as he stood, turned, in the hallway, he could only imagine the images from his previous nightmare, and as a figure rounded the corner, he froze, his mouth unable to move until an utterly loud cry rang out from it.

"_!"_

America booked it up the nearest flight of stairs with the speed of a wild animal. Tripping over the banister, her barely had time to make it up the stairs before he fell flat on his face in the middle of the hallway.

_Meanwhile-_

"What's that noise, aru?" China glanced up the stairs as he hung up his coat.

_Meanwhile that-_

Belarus looked at the door as a loud scream interrupted her long chain of daydreams. They were gone in a second as a loud series of thumping footsteps sounded on what was the stairway. Was it Russia? Her heart swelled a little.

She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin as the minutes had ticked painfully by. Whatever was taking Russia so long had to have a reasonable explanation; she was beginning to get extremely impatient.

Or maybe it was Lithuania's mistake. Maybe he had got the message wrong. Maybe there was a hidden meaning in the message, she thought. She mumbled a little curse. All this time she'd been daydreaming about when Russia would get there and she hadn't thought about that. Let's see. She figured that Russia could've meant _not _to go into the bedroom. He was planning a meeting with those other nations, so maybe there could be a trap he planned to lure them into in here. She slid on leg off the bed thoughtfully.

But, then again, maybe her imagination was getting away from her, she thought. She paused on the side of the bed. Why would he try to give her a hidden message in the form of "wait for me in one of the bedrooms." What more could that mean? And how long was he expecting her to wait?

She bit her lip as she glanced up at the clock mounted on the wall next to the window. Shaking the anticipation of her older brother, she fully came off the bed, and marched toward the door. It had to be Lithuania's mistake. She'd have to ask him again about what Big Brother had said. She must've heard him wrong. Scowling, she opened the door and flung herself in a self-rage into the hallway.

Her anger over boiled when she saw who was practically collapsed in the hallway. Choking, spitting, and hacking on his own fear, America gripped the banister railing in attempt to calm himself down. Obviously the scream had come from his mouth, Belarus concluded and almost audibly ground her teeth. She had swallowed her pride enough to make an alliance with him, yes. But Russia hated him, and she hated him as well. Just a loudmouth on the wrong side of the earth.

Nevertheless, she wasn't here to pick fights with anyone. She didn't pay him any attention as she walked with visible grace toward him, then turned to go down the stairs.

However, America had already planned to get Belarus's attention that day. He struggled to his feet, dusted himself off and tried not to think about how idiotic he must've just appeared, and then watched as Belarus completely ignored him and went down the stairs.

He quickly forced himself to fall into step with her. "Hey," he said.

She didn't answer. Her hand followed the railing, and she seemed more focused on her steps than anything else in the world.

America didn't give up. "Whatcha doing?" He pressed. Being annoying was one of his many talents, the whole house knew that, however he was oblivious to it. He stumbled after Belarus down the stairs, tripping as he tried to go sideways so that she was forced to face him. "Did I, like, wake you up or something? Cuz I really didn't mean to scream…"

"I wasn't asleep," Belarus thought it might be a little more bearable if she talked to him. It wouldn't take long for England to turn up and nag him until he left.

"Oh. Oh, cool! So what were you doing?" They came to the end of the stairs, and Belarus hopped the last one.

"I was waiting for my brother," she said simply then turned around to the scary hallway.

America swung around the banister. "You and me both. Got any idea what's holding him up so long?"

She barely paused to consider his question. "I should think you and your Allied friends are the problem. You've got to have him in there arguing more than talking."

"I-_what?" _America stopped following Belarus and peeked around the stairs at the living room door. He listened for any conversation that could come from Russia, but he didn't hear anything. "Dude," he faced Belarus again. "I dunno what you're talking about, but Russia hasn't been here for about an hour."

She paused before the kitchen door. "What're you talking about? I thought he said he'd be with you today."

"That's what he told everybody," America sighed. "Who told you that anyway? He wasn't here to greet us or anything."

"Well, where is he?" Belarus's voice had spiked an octave.

"Who knows?" America leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "He probably hasn't been here all morning."

Belarus seemed to mouth the words "all morning" and then she turned around. She stepped over America's feet in the hall, and he confusedly watched her march from the back of the hall to the front door. He tried to make sense of what she was doing, but it all became clear when she flung open the door and threw herself into the cold.

"AAAGH!" America was up in a second, but the running figure of Belarus was gone before he could reach the door. In the time he had been here, the wind had picked up an awful snowstorm, pushing snow every other which way. "What're you doing?" He screamed, sticking his head out. His cheeks were raw almost instantaneously. "HEY! _Belarus!"_

"America, who are you yelling to?" England sighed. France and China were standing in the doorway to the living room, looking expectantly at him. "It's very rude."

America flapped his arms like a madman, signaling out the door. "She just _ran outside. _In a _blizzard. _In _Russia."_

"Oh, please, America," England said, coming to the door to pull it shut. "I'm sure she'll be fine. She does live here-"

Just as England said that, a blast of snow hit the two brothers from where they stood in the doorway, forcing snow to scatter all over the hallway. England blinked at the ferocity of the wind, and the coldness of the air. He shut the door, then turned and faced America, his face solemn.

America's back was already turned, opening a hallway closet beside the door. His arms dove in, and he fumbled for a moment. "Where's my jacket?" He griped, throwing Russia's many coats on the floor. Any of them would've been adequate for the horrible weather.

"Are you crazy? You can't just go outside!" France called from the living room, staying out of the snowy hallway. "It is much too cold outside! Let the crazy girl figure that out for herself, she'll come back inside soon enough."

"I think we all heard 'crazy' in that sentence," America said, then he picked up one of Russia's coats. It was black and long with a bunch of random frills and chains, and even shoulder fringes. America swam in it, but then again, his aviator's jacket was no where in sight. "She'll freeze get lost out there and freeze or something. I'm a hero. I'll go get her, and everything'll be fine."

"I don't think that's a good idea, mate," England said worriedly. He tried to grab America's sleeve as he stomped past him in Russia's enormous coat. America opened the door and started to step out, blasting England again with more cold wind. "America!"

America ignored him and marched into the cold.

"_America! ALFRED F. JONES GET BACK INSIDE!" _England screamed, but the young country merely saluted, and the white Russian plain swallowed him.

_A few minutes later…_

Lithuania knocked on the door to the living room. He opened it, found China, France and England sitting on a couch and England folded over in a chair. All of them were silent. They must've gotten board. It was too quiet for him to really realize America's absence so he just stepped inside. "Um," he said. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I think it might be best for you three to go home, uh, I don't think Russia's coming."

England lifted his head. "We can't _leave."_

"No, it'll really be all right," Lithuania said frantically. "Don't worry about hospitality and everything, I'm sure he would understand as well."

"No, that's not what England meant-aru," China said. He dusted off his pants. "That American idiot went outside in a blizzard looking for Belarus because she went outside looking for Russia-aru." He blinked. "And I thought he called you guys. He called me saying he wandered outside and got caught in a blizzard almost an hour ago. He said he would stay where he was until the storm calmed down. He sounded kind of drunk when he said it-aru."

"_Why didn't you say that earlier?"_ England cried. "You stupid GIT. Now America's outside for absolutely no reason!"

China shrugged. "Maybe that will teach him a lesson."

_I had a bit too much fun with this chapter._

_Happy Easter! I was typing this at nighttime before I went to bed and such at my aunt's and uncles…I made the mistake of staying up til midnight before Easter, even. Please review! I knew it took a couple days for this to come up, but I'm home now, so the chapters will come faster now._

…_I also realized a bit after that I made America spontaneously get hungry AFTER France made the Russia's bowels comment…oops…_


	3. Chapter 3

_I do not own Hetalia, Hidekaz Himaryu does… I don't own any of the characters, places, habits, cooperations, people, or anything. Please review!_

3. In Snow, You Will Find…

"It's cold," America shivered, gripping his forearms.

The young nation's face was entirely unfeeling. Occasionally he took his hands from Russia's deep pockets and poked his face, but it was hopeless after about five minutes of trudging around in the snow. This was nothing compared to what he had remembered of his northern regions that experienced negative temperatures- or of the visits taken to his brother, Canada.

The thick collar was turned up so that only his eyes (that were rarely open more than half a centimeter) peeked out from it. The coat made him sort of…squelch. And he knew he should really be running into the wind for Belarus and not thinking about a creepy coat, but it's color, it's scent, it's feel all made him sort of want to peel it off and run back.

But he couldn't even see behind him. He knew he had gone dead ahead, no turns or anything, but he was afraid he'd turn around and wander off into the wide white Russian blizzard.

And with that thought, he started to panic. He would've been more comfortable if he had wandered out in a completely blank path with someone. He wouldn't have minded walking alongside _Russia _for goodness sakes, as long as they could get lost together. He wanted his alien friend, Tony, more than anything. Tony would be irritated and unhelping, but like England's imaginary friends, he meant something to him.

With that, he broke into a run for the lost Belarus, running, screaming her name into the white. His voice was torn to the side from his lips, there was no hope in her hearing him over the wind.

The cold nipped into his books. He jumped up and down in circles, scanning the horizon, trying to warm himself up. White to the left. White to the right. Then, he froze, realizing his mistake. He had turned around, not going straight. His eyes squelched. He hugged himself on the huge wide white, alone.

Completely alone, and extremely cold. His teeth clicked. "Belarus?" He yelled into the wind. "HELLO? BELARUUUUUS!"

Nothing.

He looked behind him, remembering the warm yellow light that had greeted them into Russia's house- which was now concealed by the ugly blanket of white that was knee-deep. He felt like his was sinking…sinking…

"Dude, get a grip," America pinched his own face. He felt that, which made him a little happier. With a step forward, he went forward. Again, and again. Nothing was in sight, but maybe he'd catch up to Belarus before he got completely lost…

_Meanwhile… _

England sat in the hallway couch, his hands folded as they were propped on his knees. He waited for a moment, then his hands went into his forehead. There was a thin line between modesty and worry. He wanted to wait for Russia to come so that he could at least explain to him what he was doing before he went out for America- but he also didn't want America freezing to death out there just because he was being polite.

"Oh, come on, Arthur," France said leeringly. "Really. America's butt might be a little nipped when he comes back in, but that hasn't done any bad to anyone ever, right? Personally I think we can just as the cutie-pie Lithuania to have a pot of hot chocolate or whatever America drinks ready for him when he wanders back inside. We can just have a hot hamburger ready and he'd smell it miles away and come running."

"France, I'd appreciate it if you grasped the danger in this situation," England sighed. He rubbed his unkempt eyebrows. "America is out there with some stupid idea that Belarus might find it attractive of him to go out and rescue him. But all that's really going to happen is-"

"And when she sees his adorably flushed cheeks from the cold, and hears how he ventured bravely into the cold to save her, of course she'd find him at least sort of attractive. Even you can't say he doesn't look cute when he grabbed that coat and went outside, no?" France crossed his arms over he chest and leaned against the wall, smirking. "He's not so stupid as to not come back, England."

"You're not making me _feel_ any better, France!" whined England. He stood up and paced around the doorway. "He's got to be lost out there. What will Canada say when we find his frozen body out here? He'll be so devastated, France…"

England knew he was getting ridiculously ahead of himself. He was already picturing the funeral, then burial, the continents that would claim America's lands one by one… Russia taking over America because everyone else wasn't as strong as he to stand before him. The world becoming almost entirely Russian, oh, how dreadful-

"…and since we're in Russia, we can always blame it on him," said France, in continuation of something England missed.

"_What? Are you crazy?" _England suddenly added something worse to the list of horrible. "Oh goodness! France, what if Belarus attacks him or something? What if he runs into someone horrible, like…like…"

"What, _Latvia?" _France laughed loudly, hoarse and ragged. "Have some more tea. And calm down, England. Once the wind dies down a bit, we can take my car and look for him. Thanks to Italy I have the gorgeous thing, and it runs like a humming bird…" France got lost for a moment as his eyes wandered out the window in longing.

England sighed, his shoulders sagging. "You're right." He stood, and went into the dining room to pour himself a third cup of tea.

"Bad idea-aru," China said simply. "The snow is too deep. You will have to wait for tomorrow if you want to look for that stupid country-aru."

"Ah…" France glanced in the dining room, where England was oddly slouched over the couched. He pulled a smile onto his face. "You're really looking adorable today, China," he said, to make up for his falter of personality. He winked mischievously at the Eastern nation, who's mouth clamped shut, stiffened, and blinked motionlessly before turning into the living room with England while muttering something in Chinese.

_Meanwhile…_

Canada had checked the weather. Russia, being a country that only a fraction of the land was occupied, was not unlike his own country. They both had equally cold northern lands, both of them still in the silence. Canada would probably be blown over with the same winter storm that was on the radar for Russia today, so he had come prepared. Decked out in a dark red coat and snow pants, heavy boots and thick wool squeezed his toes. He was warm as he stepped off the plane, but his exposed eyes and nose and lips tingled with the cold temperature. The sky was a light gray, and filtering down was little white specks of snow that he was so familiar. He smiled to himself, slung over his pack and started for the exit to the airport.

Being a country, he didn't need a passport, if it had been like old times and he had road in a plain of his own. However, human security and a travel-agent booked flight, he had been required to use one. He showed him the picture of a bored-looking self, his first name "Mathew," and not "Canada." People had trouble wrapping their heads around what they were, however, they had a sort of knowledge, and usually kept their distance (except in France's case). The guards passed him by as he nimbly told him he was just on a business trip, and would probably be out of the country in the next two days, proving he wasn't an illegal alien and trying to escape into Russia. He already had a hunch that he would have to spend the night because of the weather, though he wasn't looking forward to it.

Mr. Kumajirou fit in his backpack, which was often used like a baby carrier in a case such as this. He was an hour late, he knew this, so he hastily strapped on his skis as he made his way out of the city as quickly as possible. It hadn't taken more than a couple hours to fly to his destination, which was Moscow. Russia's house was in a forest _outside _of Moscow, which would take him longer to get to.

The flight had been delayed an hour, or he would've made it on time. He was always late for everything, really, but no one really noticed him enough to care. On the flight, a woman had almost accidentally sat on him in mistake for her own seat, so he had been squished next to a lad who had constantly been forgetting his existence, and leaning over only to fall asleep on his shoulder. This was nothing, because the coldness of the airplane and the curious clear liquid served had made him rather sick- he was dizzy, and it was cold.

Once he was out of the city, a long winding forest path stretched out to Russia's house. It was only fitting that his home should be right outside of his capital, though the snow was too deep and the window was about to kick up once he got into the country. Thought he didn't mind. He grabbed his orange-tinted goggles from the top of his head and let them suck to his eyes- the air didn't bite so much this way. "Alright," he said to his pet, situated on his back. He positioned the poles to his skis and pushed off, into the winding pathway.

Winter sports was one of the many things Canada exceeded at- and maybe since the Olympics were held in one of his provinces, he thought, that the world might notice him a little more since he'd done well. Skiing compared to things like ice skating and the bobsled were nothing- on the inside he loved the sports and the cold, though his whenever his brother, America, his suggestions to show him the sports were often turned into sessions of laugh-at-the-Canadians. _Maybe he'll see me like this,_ Canada thought with hopeful determination. He was looking rather heroic, in a sort of sporty wall, the way his poles and feet clawed at the ground for more speed, and the way he navigated his way through the wintry storm like he lived there.

The woods opened up into a big, wide field that had recently been blown over with snow. Canada could feel through his coat the bite of a storm. The snow was clawing at his coat and his cheeks started to turn red. He hoped to get inside soon and have something warm to drink, someone to talk to. Perhaps Russia might be polite enough to give him a blanket to snuggled up with, and maybe even a seat by a fire. He knew he'd just have to ask, though Russia, the few times Canada had invited the almost-neighbor to his house, had always managed to scared the very little warmth out of him. However, whenever he had met with Russia, there had always been a sort of understanding air about them, which had probably kept him alive, now that he thought about it. Russia had once mentioned he could barely tolerate America, and Canada assumed it was probably in a way different to his own brotherly annoyance, though he had hastily agreed, which had caused him and the large country to be…sort-of-friends…?

No sooner that Canada thought this, something tugged him from the ground, and into the air. His legs buckled and bent as the skis lifted, hurling him several feet. Landing left his legs bent because the skis prevented him from falling the right way, so the way his legs mangled together was extremely painful. He struggled to sit up, clicked the straps off and stood up.

"That was weird," he said breathlessly, in his whispery and airy voice. He straightened his hat. "Mr. Kumajirou, are you alright…?" Of course, the bear didn't answer, but Canada didn't check to see. He was too occupied with the uncovered lump of creamish-white outlined in darker shades of orange from his goggles; it was too strange to be a peculiar mound of snow, and it couldn't be a rock the way it sat up from the fortress of snow it had laid in.

Russia held his head with a dizzy look about him. Canada heard him mutter "ow" and sort of curl inward.

A second later, he realized he had just rammed into his host at full speed with skis. He started to panic, and babbled an apology. "I'm really sorry!" He said breathlessly, and ran over to where Russia sat cross-legged in the snow. "I didn't see you there, I'm sorry, I was kind of spaced out. Are you okay?"

It took the nation a moment to lift his head to Canada to look at with a doped smile. Canada kept his distance. Russia made a sort of dreamy noise, hiccupped, and said: "I was the first to go into space, da?"

It didn't take much for Canada to notice that something was wrong with him. He didn't quite figure that he was drunk, it was probably sleepiness or sickness or the cold. "Uh…" He said, pausing to think. "Um, yes, you were. Do you need some help?"

"No need," Russia said cheerfully, raising a hand to stop Canada from helping him. "I was just taking a nap." His foot hit the almost-empty bottle of vodka that was frozen next to him in the snow. He stretched, wobbled, then almost fell into the snow again. He would've, if he didn't smother Canada with his body in a drunken strut.

Canada, now squished under the only nation larger than him, positioned himself so that Russia wouldn't smash Mr. Kumajirou with his massive body. "Uh…" He said breathlessly. "If you need some help getting home, I can take you there."

The weight of Russia was really starting to make it hard to breath. Canada grabbed one of his arms over his shoulder so he at least positioned him to make it possible to breathe. "Listen, I can take you home but you've really got to walk just a little. Please."

"I think home is that way," Russia said, completely ignoring Canada's question. "When we get there, you'll have to become one with me. It's the only way I can really thank you for waking me up."

"Sure…" Canada forced out. He took a step, not realizing what he had said, and started to drag Russia in the direction he had said. "What's your place like, anyway?" He asked hopefully. "It's got…something, right?"

They walked a couple yards, Russia limply stumbling along with Canada's help, singing something in his native language as he desperately tried to figure out why the frozen liquid in the vodka bottle wouldn't move.

Canada was carrying his bag in one hand as Mr. Kumajirou walked behind them, his eyes trained on his owner as he dragged a man almost a head taller than he across a windy field. It was hard to really say anything, but Canada didn't ask where they were going just in case Russia might think he was doubting him. So he marched straight forward, hoping that his house was close. The snow was about knee-deep, proving that the many times Russia mentioned snow in his country was very much true. Canada didn't sink in the mass nearly as much as Russia, though Russia was too tall and too drunk to care.

Canada mostly worried about the new pair of skis he had left in the snow. They would rust and probably ruin, and that would be that. It would be impossible to show off in front of America, which disappointed him more than anything.

"Are we almost there?" He finally wheezed to Russia.

"Nope," Russia said happily. The bottle finally slipped from his hand, but he didn't notice. "We have about a mile to walk yet."

"That's great," Canada said, though he didn't mean it. "I mean. There's nothing like taking a walk with a friend, right?" He forced himself to laugh.

Russia laughed- this made Canada a little more relaxed. But then he said, "You and I can never be friends. But it is fun walking with you."

With that, a ridged Canada hauled Russia silently over the field.

_Meanwhile…_

The wind was slowing down, America could feel it. He wasn't so cold in his coat anymore, not with the wind, and he could see better. But his glasses, which were just metal-rimmed, seemed to be frozen to his face. His teeth no longer clicked together with the chill, he was used to it by now.

In the distance, he could make out a figure. His heart leapt at the thought of Belarus, so he sped up toward her. The thought of her relieved face, acknowledging him for saving her, gave him new energy. He jumped through the snow, triumphant, until the figure morphed against as he got closer.

When he and the blob got closer (at this point the was hoping it wasn't a bear or something) he slowed down.

"_Canada?" _He asked breathlessly as he and a distorted-looking Russia came into view. "Oh my gosh, man, I am so glad to see you!" He ran toward his brother, who was equally relieved. America gave his younger brother a running hug and made Russia have to let go, who was standing on his own now.

"Is that my coat?" Russia asked in a creepy happy tone.

America ignored him, or didn't hear him. "Dude, where have you been? You're totally late."

"I know, my flight was delayed and I tripped over Russia, so we were walking back," Canada explained. He sounded exhausted to America.

"You are wearing my coat," Russia stated again. America failed to respond a second time.

"Well, that's okay, I guess," America said. His chest heaved. "England dragged me with him. Aren't you, like, freezing?"

"Yeah, but we have a long walk to Russia's house," Canada told him.

"Aw, man," America sighed. Then he perked up again. "Hey, have you guys seen Belarus? She went out looking for Russia. And, dude, where have you been? The guys back at the house are waiting for you."

But when America had lifted his face to look at the country, Russia wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were peculiarly dark, the shifty purple color of them like shades of an eggplant. He stepped forward, somehow steady again, and held out his hand.

"Give me," he started, his voice still light with the air like he was talking to a good friend. "My coat. Or I'll twist it off your weak little neck. How does that sound?"

_Yeah._

_That was Russia's Soviet coat America took._

_Sorry it took my so long to get this chapter up, things kept getting in the way. I try not to write if I'm not in the right mood, and I continuously was talking to a friend and trying to write at the same time, so I lost my train of thought really easily. (also I was just lazy about it for a week)_

_Thanks to those of you who have put this story on their watch list- and especially to my reveiwers! I'm glad you like this, and I hope you'll be equally satisfied with this chapter. Because it's the weekend, I'll probably be able to get another chapter up before it's over._

_Please keep reading and reviewing!_

_The next chapter will start in 2nd POV again. _


	4. Chapter 4

_I do not own Hetalia, the characters, places, events, cooperation or anything that isn't mine. Hetalia is Hidekaz Humaryu's. Please review!_

_And to some people, when I say "football" I mean "soccer."_

4. Football, Potatoes, and Flowers

You are Germany.

The scars you have been dealt are like wounds of a dying animal. Healing slowly, growing stronger. The wreckage a grotesque war had given you have slowed you down. You are not visibly as strong as you once were, you look deprived and starved. Yet you are still the same person. You still get annoyed when Italy decides to leave a mess for you to clean, you still eat Wurst sausages like cake. You are still strong, though not in the same way.

Your face is deathly serious as it stares back at itself in the mirror. You are thinner, not as built, not nearly as intimidating. But you feel the same. You are climbing, slowly, out of the hole the war had dug behind your back as you fought. Buried over, you have clawed yourself from the rubble.

But you are also exhausted. You had just finished a game of football with Switzerland, so you had showered, and dressed. You grab your tote bag with the sweaty gear inside and sling it over your shoulder, flipping your wet blonde hair over so it would stay slicked back.

"Good game, Germany," Switzerland bids you as you leave the locker room. You had played in his stadium, and had won, as usual. Switzerland wipes the sweat from his forehead, moving his golden bangs from his eyes.

"Yeah, you too," you say as you open the door to the stadium. Your accent had caught many of the players off-guard, the way some things were pronounced as "v's." It didn't confuse Switzerland because they knew each other, though it did confuse him at times. "I guess this means I'll be playing Austria, right?"

"I guess so," Switzerland mumbled. He was clearly not taking the loss well. "I'll be watching that," he said, and tucked something in his back pocket. You suppose it's a gun- probably carried around with the excuse of "just-in-case." Even you don't carry around a weapon anymore, but Switzerland had always come off to him as gun-obsessed, so you exit the locker room and step onto the rainy field.

Of the stands, there were only a few people left. You spot Liechtenstein sitting with a polka-dotted umbrella next to the person you are searching for, the red-headed Italy, who looked like he was melting under the rain.

"Germany, I really hate it here, it's so rainy and dark and not sunny, can we please go home and get some wine or something, I'm really thirsty and that match was really boring, but you did really good, and-"

"Yeah," You interrupt your companion, before he can complain any more. "Let's go home now."

Italy jumps up and runs down the slick steps, and you watch him carefully because the steps are smooth concrete and easy to slip on. Italy makes it out the doors and into the parking lot without stumbling, and the doors swing shut behind him.

"Congratulations, Mr. Germany," says a soft voice. You turn, and Liechtenstein is on her feet. "You did a good job."

Of course you could count on Switzerland's little sister to be gracious about the win. She was small and petite, wearing a jersey shirt that was probably Switzerland's at one point, so it didn't fit her at all, though it supported Switzerland's team, so that was all that really mattered. Her face was still young, and her mouth was small, and she clutched the umbrella above her head, completely dry.

"Oh," you say, catching your response for the comment that had came out of nowhere. "Thank you. Make sure there's no hard feelings between me and Switzerland, will you?"

"Sure," Liechtenstein says brightly, and then she skips down the steps as Switzerland calls out to her.

You walk down the steps as well, sighing, because when you open the door you see that Italy had pulled your car up to the curb to wait. In the process, he had taken out the three cars parked by the sidewalk. Your car is barely scathed, but you approach the smiling Italian from the driver's side.

"No," you say. "I'm driving."

"What?" Italy is clearly disappointed. "But Germany, your roads are so fun and it's a really long drive and you've got to be really tired and-"

"Italy," you say. You tone enters a dangerous air. "The thought is nice. But _get out._" It's often that you have to order Italy around, and he was used to it, so it goes without note.

Italy sulkily climbs out of the drivers side and walks around the black car to the passenger seat. You get in the car and put it in the correct gear- Italy had been driving with all four wheels on a completely flat surface. Once Italy is fully situated and comfortably keeping an entirely pointless dialog, you pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway that will take you and Italy home.

The hills are green, and the sky is blue, the air tastes a little wet. It takes you a few hours to get home, with Italy passing out almost a half hour into the drive, though you pull into the parking lot of the tidy apartment in Berlin, and tap him on the shoulder.

"We're home?" Italy yawns. "That was a really good drive, eh, Germany?" Italy climbs out of the car and grabs the overnight bag you had him pack. "Next time, you'll let me drive, right? On a shorter trip?"

"Maybe," you say. In your mind, you know you want to keep Italy as far away from a steering wheel as possible, so there were no promises. You join Italy as you enter the lobby, which was manned by a passed-out clerk, which really gets on your nerves to see someone slacking off at their job. As you pass to the stairs, you ring the bell, which wakes him immediately. You tiredly climb the three sets of stairs as Italy runs ahead with enthusiastic energy that fueled him, and opens the door with a key you were sure was in your back pocket just a second ago.

The door to the apartment is opened, and you enter the one-room residence you uphold with Italy. The couch against the wall has a coffee table in front of it, and a small but expensive-looking telivision across form that. The shelves on the walls are mostly filled with Italy's pictures, photos of him and the many allies he had made over the years. The bunk bed against the wall is already occupied with Italy sitting cross-legged on the top bunk. You let your bag fall on your bottom bunk, and you flop on it easily.

Italy's head is soon invading your vision when you open your eyes a second later.

"What?" You ask, a little annoyed.

"You want some pasta, Germany?" Italy asks him with a wispy air in his voice. His accent is atrocious. "I can make you some nice gnocchi or maybe some pizza, if you'd like."

"Sure," you say, and roll over. "I'm just going to take a rest while you make it."

"That's all right," Italy said, and you hear the thump as he skips the ladder and merely jumps onto the rug. You hear him enter the small kitchen and turn on the heat for the meal.

You don't know why Italy insists on living with you any more, but you've come not to mind. Once you had got past the mess he makes over time, you had come to be thankful for his prescience. It makes up for the silence- and the loneliness. His constant ramble reminds you slightly of your brother.

_Prussia._ Your face no longer contorts in pain over the disappearance of your brother. Italy never was good reading you, so it was impossible for him to tell that you are honestly distressed about the memory. _Where had Russia taken him? _No one had seen Prussia for decades, not even his well-known enemy, Austria. But then again, Austria might've seen him. You'll have to ask him in the next match, before the game, you think.

"Germmmmmmmany?" Italy asks leeringly from the kitchen.

"What is it?" You decide it's no use trying to sleep until Italy did; it was almost impossible.

Italy was standing in the small living room portion of the apartment, holding an empty box. "We're out of pasta."

You groan and rub your temples because you know you'll have to drive him to the supermarket to get some.

_Meanwhile…_

"Switzerland, you did lovely," said Liechtenstein as Switzerland woke up from a rest. It was almost dinnertime, and her older brother had rested after the game. "You were so close."

"Yes, well," Switzerland didn't really want to think about it. He rubbed his eyes from sleep. "I guess this means I don't get to kick Austria's butt anymore…" he mumbled. He had hoped to win to put Austria in his place, but that hadn't happened. "Thank you. And I'm glad to see that good display of manners to Germany on the field. It was very nice of you to congratulate him."

"He did well too," said Liechtenstein. "And I think you'll be rooting for him in the next match?"

"Of course I will," Switzerland said crossly. He went into the kitchen. "There's no way I'll be rooting for that rich prick of a man…" He mumbled as he turned on the stove.

"Okay," said Liechtenstein. Switzerland went ridged as he realized that she had heard him.

Switzerland and Liechtenstein lived in a small house in the middle of a country town. Around their house was little thatched cottages that burst with color and flowers, and their house was not unlike the others, but only slightly larger. Switzerland's room was well furnished and next to the kitchen with a bathroom down the hall, right across his room was the door to Liechtenstein's room. They both had the same tidy and well-furnished rooms, with a small bed pushed against the wall, a dresser and a bedside table. The only difference was Liechtenstein had more feminine curtains. Their windows were clean and the floor was swept, it was so tidy because Liechtenstein often occupied herself on the days Switzerland was away with cleaning. Switzerland often wondered why that was, but he figured it was because she had lived with Germany when she was young, and didn't question it.

Every since styles of homes had been changing, almost all countries had been on the move with the decade. America's house was surprisingly futuristic and well kept, Germany and Italy's was tidy and modern, and France, of course, had the most stylish flat with the best view of the Eiffel Tower in all of Paris. However, Switzerland and Liechtenstein hadn't moved since the war. They had to at first because of the wreckage it had created, but once they had settled after that, they hadn't moved. The furniture inside the house had to be replaced once in a while, though Switzerland was too caught up in the homey-ness of the little cottage, and Liechtenstein liked anything Switzerland did. They changed their fashion as France pumped out new styles, but they both kept it relatively simple. Switzerland had changed out of his dirty football jersey and into just a pair of worn jeans and a button-up long-sleeved shirt, though Liechtenstein still wore hers over second-hand jeans that Switzerland had got her at a thrift store.

Actually, Switzerland thought, as he wiped the counters down in preparation for some potatoes and cheese, most of our clothes are from thrift stores.

"What are we having, brother?" Liechtenstein asked softly. She pulled out two plates from the little cabinets on the wall and set them on the table.

"I just thought we could do with something simple," Switzerland said. "Will you grate some cheese for me?"

"Sure," his sister offered as she set down glasses and silverware. She went into the cooling basement, the entrance was next to the shelves with the plates, and came back up with a little black of cheese. She grabbed the grater off the wall and started to move the cheese up and down the rough surface.

Once the potatoes were boiling and the cheese was in a small lump on the cutting board, Switzerland leaned against the counter and Liechtenstein sat down at the table patiently. "So did you like the match?" He asked her, filling the peaceful silence.

"Yes," she said. "But I was worried someone was going to get hurt in the fourth quarter. You were really fighting there."

"Well, I guess so," Switzerland said. "But I don't think Germany would've picked a fight with me. Do you?"

She shook her head, the purple bow nestled behind her ear moving with her short blonde locks. Switzerland had realized a while ago that Liechtenstein wasn't ever going to grow her hair back. Though he could admit that she was pretty either way, and he didn't stop her.

The phone rang, interrupting what Switzerland was about to say. "Hold on a second. Can you pour out the water for me?"

Liechtenstein nodded, and went to the stove as Switzerland stepped into their small den to get the phone. She heard him pick up and greet the person on the other line, but the sound of the water down the sink drowned out everything else. The mushy white potatoes were soft enough to mash, so she took one of the bigger forks from the little basket on the shelf and poked at them until they were a white mess at the bottom of the pan. Switzerland was still on the phone by this time, so she grabbed both of their plates and scooped a heap of potatoes onto his plate, and sprinkled on the cheese. She did the same for herself, and put the leftovers in a small container.

After she resurfaced from the cooling basement, Switzerland's voice was steadily rising. A moment later, she heard the phone click as it was set on the receiver, and Switzerland came back into the room. He sighed, then he saw the two plates set at the table. Liechtenstein hauled the big pot that had the potatoes in it over to the sink and set it there to be washed afterward, then sat down with him.

"Thanks, Lily," Switzerland mumbled. They said Grace, then Switzerland fit a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. He chewed, then said carefully, "That was Austria now. He wants me over there for a couple of days, something about political interests or something. Will you be okay here for a couple of days?"

Liechtenstein stopped eating for a second. "But, brother, I thought we were going to watch the match together in a few days…"

"I know we were." Switzerland had a bad habit of sounding rough, and this was one of those times. "But Liechtenstein, I was asked to be somewhere. Would it be polite to say no?"

Silently, she shook her head.

Switzerland fit another bite into his mouth. "I'll go tonight. I'll try to make it home before the match, alright?" He lifted his head, Liechtenstein was staring at her lap. "Aw, come on, Liechtenstein. I'll try to make it, okay?"

"Okay," a disheartened Liechtenstein nodded her head solemnly.

The two of them finished their meal in silence.

_Meanwhile…_

Hungary stood on her tiptoes and carefully placed the figurine back in it's place. It was a porcelain figure of a woman with rosy lips and a maid's outfit with a creamy white pale of milk. She had always thought it look a bit like herself, though she never made that thought known to Austria.

She walked out into the hallway where Austria suddenly stepped out in front of here.

"There you are," he said. His accent had a sort of snip to it. He was wearing a suit and a tie, his shoes glossy with shine that she had polished onto them. His brown hair, the color of chocolate, was styled with jell, and nevertheless, a single curl stuck out. Sometimes Hungary found herself wanting to put it back, though she never did.

"I had to call Switzerland," he said.

"What for?" Asked Hungary. She held onto the stool she had stood on in anticipation- Austria wouldn't often invite Switzerland over.

"Government issues," Austria said stately. "I just need his advice for a couple of days. Will you clean a room for him?"

"Of course," Hungary answered. She hardly needed to. The dozens of rooms that made up Austria's house were all usually clean, but most of them needed dusting.

"Thank you," Austria said. He started around her, but hesitated.

Hungary hardly knew what was going on as Austria pulled the flower out of her hair. To her horror, she saw an ugly brown daisy. She hadn't replaced it- and her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"Are you worried about something?" He asked her. He could always tell.

The fact that Hungary had worried about Austria for a long time now should've been obvious- though her general appearance was almost never unkempt. She was mostly a well-fed maid in Austria's household, and well cared for. They had been together a long time, fought together, laughed, cried even. Austria was clearly a friend, a close companion.

And yet she shook her head. She didn't like lying, but there were so many things she couldn't say to Austria. So many secrets. The time she had broken dishes and dared not tell him, all the nights she had woke and wished to be beside him. The secrete that she missed Prussia. A silent voice that whispered she wanted to learn to play the piano as well. Something to share with him. Anything.

"Alright," Austria said. He was easily fooled with a serious look. "Thank you, that's all." And he walked down the hall.

She didn't see him slip the dead flower into his pocket.

She couldn't hear his thoughts that were begging him to say something more.

They loved each other.

_Wow._

_I had to delete a lot of this chapter and start over after I had finished the Germany part- I decided I wanted to expand a bit with the world and not go straight into the conflict. Yes, there is going to be a plot with the other characters as well (and a bit of romance…?) though not all that you think. I have no idea what specific pairings I support (Belarus and America, obviously, but the thing with Hungary has me at a pause) so other than the one specified, be as confused as me. _

_If you were anticipating the things that happen after Russia got his pants in a not about the coat, sorry…that'll probably happen in the next chapter…maybe. Once the week starts again it might not be until next weekend that you get your next chapters._

_That dish Liechtenstein and Switzerland were cooking had to be looked up- I give Wikepedia the credit for the Raclette…or whatever I took from there. So I don't take credit for that._

_Without further boringness, goodbye! Please read and review!_


	5. Chapter 5

_I do not own Hetalia, the characters, places, events, people, habits, cooperations, or anything. Hetalia is Hidekaz Himaryu's. Please review! And Happy Mother's Day!_

5. In Snow, you will Find…

America stared at Russia's outstretched hand confusedly. There was no escaping it- Russia was now angry (if he could get angry) and he was standing right there. It wouldn't take much for him to squash the daylights out of him, right there and right now, America being so cold and Russia being so…large…

He unbuttoned the coat slowly, and lifted it from his shoulders. "Fine, grumpy," he mumbled, and handed him the coat. Through the grey sweatshirt and jeans, the cold bit more than ever. He squeezed himself tightly, and pulled up his hood as his teeth clenched shut. Anger towards Russia was really the only thing keeping him from turning into a huge Patriot Pop. "H-how f-f-far away is-s-s-s your h-h-house again-n-n?" He shivered, his voice straining.

"I can't quite say," said Russia cheerfully, his head titled and looking up at the sky as the wind tore at his white hair. He draped the coat over his shoulder, not even bothering to put it on. "But I hope you get lost on the way."

Russia grabbed Canada's sleeve and pulled him forward, into the blinding white. The blonde-haired country whimpered to quietly for Russia to hear, though he stumbled along and was desperately jogging to keep up with Russia's long steps.

"It's not that difficult to follow," America mumbled, and trudged after them.

In a matter of moments, he could barely take the cold. Every step stretched his freezing muscles painfully, his numb toes stretched forward and backward in his shoes. His clothes were wet from the snow, and ice was forming around the rims of his jeans. His socks were too short to provide much warmth to his feet, so his ankles were also cold. He was trying to move every part of his body to make sure it didn't fall off, or something. The snow was so deep, but soft and white like a big sheet on a bed. It does look kind of comforting, but that was stupid, he thought. The idiotic sense of trying to fall asleep in a snowstorm would only leave him to freeze to death.

His concern for Belarus was the only distraction. He wanted to keep looking for her, but that was now impossible. She was probably as cold as he was, shivered, huddled under a pine tree, maybe. She still thought her brother was lost somewhere out there, when what he was really doing was trying to freeze his enemy to death. Was she safe? Would she be alright?

Canada was constantly looking behind him to made sure America kept up. He had tried to wriggle free of Russia's grasp, but by now it was no use. He had tried to make pleasant conversation with Russia as well, though he was now either to angered or hung over to make any. Canada wondered how it was possible to smile when you're angry, but he had never tried it. He didn't often get angry, but when he did, it was usually centered on America- though now all he could feel for his older brother was pity. He kept a careful eye on his blonde-haired brother as he marched through the snow at a steady pace, and managed not to fall behind. His face was read and his ears were a gross grey color by the time the house came into sight, the yellow light luminous in the grey. Once they stepped onto the porch, America was only a few steps behind, and jumped up and down for the last few steps, then Canada was dragged up the stairs.

Russia opened the door and let the flakey bits of white fall from his shoulders. Canada rubbed his arms. It was definitely warmer in here. He took in Russia's house- the paintings, the statues, the staircase, and most of all: the sound of a fire, somewhere close. Canada relaxed a bit as his body warmed, tiring itself. Dragging Russia along had really sucked the energy from him, but now that he could freely sit down and relax, he felt much more welcome.

"Lithuania, could you put on some tea, please?" Russia shouted into the house, dragging Canada into the living room with him. He set his black coat on the back of the sofa, draped carefully, then sat himself.

England nearly choked on his tea when Russia pushed Canada into a chair next to France and sat down beside him- stiff as a rod, Russia smiled. "Hello everyone. Sorry I'm late."

The moment of shocked silence was strong enough to make the almost inaudible noises of England twitching next to Russia as loud as a scream. Canada's sneeze broke the silence, and he blew on his hands. "Hi guys. Sorry, my plane got delayed and I found Russia on the way through Moscow-"

France had delicately been clutching a glass of wine before Russia entered the room. Now he jumped up, the red liquid like a faucet into the air, and rushed over to Canada. Russia didn't even flinch as the wine spilt all over the hardwood floor- Latvia was somehow there in a second with a rag to clean it up. In the meantime, France fussed over Canada. "My poor brother!" He cried, taking Canada's face in his hands. "Your face is all red! What happened to you? Are you cold?" He took off his atrocious pink jacket and draped it over him. "Here take this. And have some tea, too. England, you've had enough, my darling brother needs a cup…"

"I'm okay…" Canada said quietly, but he shivered. He looked more concerned about the pink jacket than his health, and started to hand it back. "I'll warm up in a second, but I think we might've locked out America."

_Slam! _The door opened and shut. The room jumped, China's tea dripped into his lap. Nobody noticed as there was a loud noise of profoundic stammers in a chilled voice. In the hallway, there was a tromping noise of shoes against the hardwood, squeaking with the melting snow on them. America came in the living room like a storm, swinging open the living room door a little more dramatically than what was necessary. The entire room was silent as he stared down every one of the members sitting on the couch, his cheeks flushed, his hair messy, and his grey jacket wet with snow.

Lithuania stopped in the hallway with a new kettle of tea, and froze when he saw the play of events.

"Where's my coat?" America demanded him. "I'm leaving. This place blows, man."

England coughed as Russia simply titled his head in answer to the argument with a smile. "A-America!" He stammered, pulling off the nervousness as laughter. He stood up and gestured to the seat next to him on the couch. "Really, look, we're all here now. Don't get cross. Just sit down and we can finish up this meeting quickly. I'm sure you're cold, and you would like to sit."

America answered by pinching the shoulders of his jacket to dry them as quickly as possible, glaring at England.

"See, Brittan? What did I tell you-he's all flushed!" France laughed. He sat down and crossed his limbs with poise. "And what's got the beetle in your pants about, eh, America? It was silly enough for you to go outside in this weather, and by the looks of it you didn't succeed in your mission to find Belarus anyhow!"

"I _would've,_" America spat. This was very unlike him, England thought, though America did sound angrily offended by something. "But that Communistic ape took his coat back and I had to come back so I didn't freeze to death in the good-for-nothing wasteland."

Estonia came into the doorway as well, calm. He motioned for Lithuania to go back into the kitchen and get America's coat so he left-quickly. "Mr. Russia," he said politely, his hand gripping to doorway to peer around America who stood in the frame like a glorious warhero. "We got a phonecall from one of the country residents saying they found Belarus, I can go get her if-"

"This coat," Russia said with a smile. "Is very important to me. It happens to be my uniform from the Soviet Union- a Communistic ape's coat- Mr. Capitalistic chicken."

America went ridged. Nobody spoke anymore. He twitched a little, realizing he had just walked around Russia in his most hated outfit, and his mouth formed a line. He ignored the name-calling, it was more of Russia's frozen smile and cold stare that bothered him.

"Oh, look at the time," England interrupted shakily. He jumped off the sofa. "France, didn't you say you had some fashion line for a store of mine you wanted to show me? I think we're l-late…" He grabbed France's arm and dragged him out of his chair, jerking America into the hall.

"Ow!" America whined as England grabbed him by the ear. "Hey, that-"

"What're you thinking?" England hissed. He might've been shorter than America by an inch or two, but America knew England could be really frightening when he wanted to be. His bushy eyebrows contorted angrily. "You're on a great start to creating a new Cold War, the way you're acting, America, and I really don't want to be around when it starts."

America shrugged him off, huffing. "I've got it under control. It's his fault."

"I don't _care," _England sighed. "You've made enough mess. Let's get back home, before you start something horrible."

"I'm not going to "start" something horrible, it's his fault!"

"What's going on-aru?" China said, poking his head into the hallway. "I don't like whispering-aru."

"Nothing," snapped England. China moved back into the room. "You Eastern galoot…" he mumbled after him, and threw on his coat. "Come on France. If you would be so kind to drive me to the airport, I'd be very appreciative."

"Of course," France said. "That will give me plenty of time for you to fill me in of the lovely wedding that took place. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, well," England mumbled, turning up the collar of his shirt. "We'll see about that. The hats some of the women wore were so completely immodest, even for this age…"

America looked into the living room toward a frozen Canada, clutching a cup of tea England had poured for him when France said so. "Come on, Matthew," America said as he pulled his arms through the sleeves of his brown leather coat. "Let's go home."

The use of his real name had Canada out of his seat like snap. He came into the hallway as Lithuania brought Latvia out to say god-bye, just to be polite. Latvia shivered under the watch of Russia from the living room, and Lithuania attentively waved.. America's didn't make him much warmer, he noticed, though when England opened the door for he and France, it made a difference.

America was about to leave with Canada by his side when Canada made a loud choking noise and was suddenly pulled back into the hallway. France and England were out the door and down the steps already. America looked back, and Russia pulled his arms around his younger brother and smiled.

"Goodbye," Russia said. "Maybe next time I see you I won't have the urge to rip off your skin."

America was appalled by the grotesque display of affection Russia was playing on his brother. "Hey, dude, get your ugly hands off Canadia!" America snapped, whirling around, standing his tallest in challenge.

"_I'm CANADA!" _Canada wheezed, but his eyebrows were going up. He lifted his head to peer into Russia's face so he could hear him. "Russia, I think you can stop hugging me now."

"I'm not hugging you," Russia said lightly. "You agreed to become one with me, remember? I think if that's the case then you should live with us. I'm sure you and Lithuania will get along very well, but sometimes I don't know about Estonia and Latvia, they can be really annoying sometimes."

"_What?" _Canada squeaked, his voice choking. Estonia and Latvia went ridgid after hearing them being called "annoying." "No, listen," Canada babbled. "That was a mistake I- like my house, I-"

"Let Matthew go!" America snapped.

"Get out," Russia said simply. With one arm, he gave America a shove out the door. "Canada will be all right without _you- _just like every other country on this planet."

America, stumbling on the stairs, fell backward, and the door shut. He jumped up, the picture of the distraught Canada fresh, and banged on the huge wooden door with his cold hands. He was too occupied to remember the pair of gloves he had slipped in his pockets of the coat, and the hat. He didn't think of Belarus either, or anyone but his poor brother on the other side of the door.

"America, what're you doing?" England sighed while France tried to start his car. The vehicle was elegant and a dark maroon, though no one but he was caring. "Did you forget your dignity in there, because you were acting like a spoiled brat."

"Open the door!" America didn't bother answering England's idiotic question. "Canada wouldn't want to be part of your sucky country, no one does! Let him go!"

"_America, stop right now!"_ England pulled the young country away from the door, which hadn't gave at all. He held him at arm's length by his shoulders. "You're acting like a two-year-old, and that's no excuse for a country that's nearly three-hundred, now pull yourself together or I'll let France do whatever he wants with you for the next ten minutes and play Chopin while he does."

America was completely silent, his mouth pulled together.

"That's better." He pulled his arms around America's shoulders and guided him away from the Russian building. "Now. France is going to drive me to the airport. Why don't you come with me? It's been an awful long time since you and I visited each other, and maybe three or four days staying at my place will do you some good. How does that sound?"

America really didn't want to say how it sounded- for England's sake. What came with England's housing, though cozy, was his disgusting food. Though, England patted America's shoulder in the comforting, brotherly way he had remembered from being raised by the same man, and he slowly nodded his head. Mainly he wanted to get away from Russia, any way possible, and there was a good chance he'd be kicked out by tomorrow morning, the way he and England often got along. There was nothing to gain or loose, and maybe, tactically, it would be a better idea to not immediately return to America, after the things he said to Russia. He remembered during the Cold War that whenever he had seen Russia, screams of insults were shot both ways, and somehow each of them had stormed away from each other without throwing a single fist.

But America and Russia had argued and, by the looks of it, America was going to have to keep an eye on Russia for the time being until things calmed down. He let himself be walk to France's car, which was desperately trying to back up in the half-meter mound of snow that lay on the fields of Russia.

_Meanwhile…_

Around the world, corruption always breaks it's way to the surface. Arguments explode from the quite pool of peace, fights form the stirred waters of the past. No one can tell the difference between the waters of a peaceful pool between the stormy waves on the sea. But it is still water, it is still the life's necessity. The same is of friendship. A person may know a person as a smiling, happy person one day, but the time between they see each other, it could be moments, and they can turn around to see the blade of a knife.

The world is unpredictable. How long is it, since true, happy peace spread over the Green Planet? World peace- happiness, tranquility. A place where the World Conference can sit around the table, and debate over pointless things, like friends do.

In Austria, Hungary sits on her bed, in agony from the price being in love pays. In another room down the hall, Switzerland calls his younger sister, who talks back to him sadly in the hallway, alone. Austria plays a slow, meaningful tune that echoes through the halls, bringing tears to the eyes of the humans that serve him.

Italy and Germany sit on the couch, Germany absorbed in a newspaper, resting for the next two days before his next match in the game of football, and Italy lazily taking up the other half of the couch, watching a poorly made Soap Opera, and laughing.

In Canada, the people are surrounded with loss, for their sudden alliance with Russia brings fear into their citizens. His leader is unaware what to do- Canada had never done something without telling him.

England, France, and America sit in England's cozy living room, sharing snacks and small conversation. France and England talk about the Royal Wedding with enthusiasm, and America checked his economy through the source of England's poor television set. So far, the blow of Russia hadn't done nothing more than freak out his president- which was all right for now.

And in Russia, a house of fear quietly ensues. Canada had fled the first chance he got straight up the stairs and into a cold bedroom, huddled in the corner. Russia sits alone in his room, his iron faucet laid next to the desk where he sat.

With it, he congratulates himself with concerning Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and now Canada.

Ukraine must come back.

In a home of an old man, wifeless, lonely, lays Belarus in the bed that he had slept in alone for almost twenty years. The cold had seeped into her body, and she lays with the quit his wife had sewn for him over her small body. He can't help but being reminded of the daughter that was grown up under this roof, who fled the same roof almost a decade ago, and had grown up while he was blind to see it. She won't wake for a day, but when she does, the one thing on her mind is her brother, that she doesn't thank the man for his hospitality as she flees in the early morning when the blizzard was clear.

And in the cold, dark basement of Russia's home, deprived and starved, lays Prussia, somehow forgotten, somehow dying. Russia had left him there, had forgotten him, and no longer even counted him on his list of "friends."

People don't think about Prussia anymore. The ones that do try to forget.

But they can't, because the clear surface that makes up the mind is easily rippled by a single touch, a single word, of a stranger. Germany wouldn't ever forget his brother- Hungary wouldn't forget her childhood companion, and Austria certainly would never forget his enemy for a couple decades.

Though if Russia continued to destroy, he would waste away. His land had been taken over by Russia- he wasn't even a nation anymore. Was it his culture, or the people who now lived with a trace of his blood in their veins that kept him alive?

He didn't know.

And as he laid in the grime, ignoring the hunger pains, he couldn't help but smiling.

Because Russia had forgotten him.

Because he was awesome to the very end.

End of Part One.

_That last part was…deep…_

_Does anyone else feel kind of retarded when I keep saying "meanwhile" OVER AND OVER? I wish I had another way to include time phases without using that bar or a word (I'm still a little peeved that Fanficiton won't let me use the asterisk, but I'll live). Oh well.._

_And thus, Prussia comes into the story. We all know he doesn't exist anymore- but he does. Like Rome, or Germania, or the Natives. Still there, but easily looked over. (and lacking appearance) I don't think he will play a huge role, but it's too soon to tell._

_And thus, ends part one. Who knows how many there will be, but it is easier in my mind than putting out sequels that people would have to hunt for, or waiting intensely. (this also means this books might get SUPER HUGE XD) _

_One last thanks to the amazing people who post the pictures that inspire me- I can't name them, but if I did the list would be large. Thank you for inspiring me!_

_Three chapters in two days. I think I can take a break now._

_Please review!_


	6. Chapter 6

_I do not own Hetalia, the characters, events, places, people, cooperations, things, habits… Hidekaz Himaryu owns it. Thanks to all those who inspire me!_

_And that song America sings was found on a Russia AMV and I take no credit for finding it or making it (it's called Russians {surprise surprise} by Sting if anyone wants to know, and it's not really meant to be screamed but America just would scream anything)_

_Part Two-_

6. Brothers: Lost And Forgotten

America danced in the middle of the airport with the ear buds dangling from his ears. He held the iTouch in his hands, rattling as he screeched out in the empty waiting room with England to his back and France waiting patiently with a magazine on his crossed knee.

"_MR. REAGAN SAID WE WILL PROTECT YOU- I WON'T SUBSCRIBE TO THIS POINT OF VEIW! BELEVE ME WHEN I SAY TO YOU, I HOPE THE RUSSIANS-!"_

"_America, shut up, before you get shot!" _England cried panicky. A humble guard in the corner of the dark waiting room looked over at the people babbling in a different language, and didn't ask questions. England swiveled around in the leather bench placed all around the rooms of the terminal. "Sit down," He hissed. "If you want to make it out of the country alive."

_Flop,_ America plopped down on the seat mirrored from England's, with a good two spaces between he and France, who sighed and flipped the page of a perfume-scented magazine. "Canada's not going to make it out alive," he mumbled, and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned down the volume of his iPod and wound the buds around the rectangular device. England ignored his comment and buried himself busily by examining the buttonholes on his jacket. "Blast it," America could've sworn him mutter as he mumbled about patching up his jacket with his finger wiggling through the place a button should've been. Sewing was one of England's less-than-dignified hobbies that he commonly practiced, and America let his tongue poke his cheek in and our over again as he concentrated on England's outlook- there was nothing else to do.

And being in Russia still was really just peeving him. The fact that he was a legit country of the world should've made it easy for him to go anywhere in it whenever he wanted to, he figured, and yet, he still had to wait five hours before a flight to England even arrived. Of course, he had made a rather loud fuss when he saw all the planes leading him back to his homeland- a flight that would've left by now to New York had been calling his name like food was.

He remembered he never really did get food from Russia- proving to himself mentally that he actually could go without eating for more than two hours. He wasn't about to share that bit of information to England, however, because that was just a lecture about his eating habits waiting to happen.

America busied himself with a list of foods he would eat when he got to England. Despite the fact that England himself couldn't cook worth a darn didn't mean that America's fast-food industry hadn't spanned over there. There had to be a cheeseburger and fires over there or something, with some really crunchy lettuce and a nice juicy tomato, lots of ketchup and the crispiest, saltiest, freshest fires ever with an ice-cold Pepsi and-

"America, would you like to share why you are drooling on the chair?" France asked sarcastically.

America tried to wipe of the wetness running down his cheek before England saw, but it was too late. England shook with silent laughter as he turned away from America and hunched over the seat, his hand clamped over his mouth.

To add onto the embarrassment, his stomach gave a loud growl. He clapped his arms around his waist just as France gave a repulsive laugh. America grit his teeth and stood up. "There's gotta be something to eat around here," he mumbled, holding his aching stomach. "Don't they usually have restaurants in airports?"

"Usually," said England. "But, America, our flight is going to be leaving in a little less than an hour. Can't you wait until we get on the plane? They'll be serving dinner there."

"_Dinner?" _America cried. "I'm worried about LUNCH. And since when has it been dinnertime anyway?"

England looked at the watch on his wrist, and turned it toward him haughtily. "It's almost six at night, America."

"_What?" _America gasped.

"You stupid idiot," France interjected as he opened the flap of a scented page on his magazine. "He's six hours ahead of you, remember?"

America did remember, and he relaxed. "Right. Thanks, dude, I was kinda freaking out there."

France let the magazine flop as he tossed it behind him, crossing his arms at America lazily. "And it wouldn't matter if there was restaurants in this place, anyway. Your America money would never go over well with these Russians, considering that they use a "ruble" and all."

America stiffened, remembering. He wandered away, stricken, mumbling about using the bathroom then exited the area, inaudible talking to himself about foreign money.

France picked up England's wrist when America was around the corner, and scowled at the time. "I hate waiting. Especially when there's plenty of pretty Russian girls around here, it's really heartbreaking to me, England. Have you heard their language? It makes positively no sense, but, ah, who cares what language they speak, none of them can resists the likes of me, right?"

"I should think so," England said deviously. "Especially since they're probably be taller than you. And not to mention that America would probably hurl an atomic weapon at you if he saw that coming back from the loo."

France twitched. He turned away from England, in the seats that were against his back. "You must spoil all my fun all the time, don't you? Well. I think I know the perfect punishment for that-"

"_Get away from me, you poetic bastard!" _England shoved France's pursed lips out of his face and scooted down the row of chairs. "Ugh- the nerve-must you make everything so difficult?" He asked and rubbed the side of his face that France's lavender-smelling face had gotten so close to.

"Oh, England," France sighed, throwing his body over the chairs like a mop. If anything was possible, there would probably be a spotlight on his with shining handfuls of glitter being cast down on him, England thought, because there was no denying that France was absolutely gorgeous- but that was a well-known fact. "It doesn't have to be difficult if you don't want it to be."

"_That's absurd! And close your legs!"_

_Meanwhile…_

Germany walked through the grocery store with Italy next to him with the shopping list. The piece of paper drooped once as they turned down the isle, and to his complete distress, he saw things like "tomatoes, garlic, onion, bread, gnocchi, spaghetti," written there. He turned his head away from him and silently made a mental note not to ever let Italy make the grocery list again, because now it was going to be impossible for him to remember everything they needed- necessity things that Italy often chose not to use, like soap. But they weren't out of soap, last Germany remembered, but the dishwasher was, and the dishwasher needed a fixing anyway, so he would get that later. Food-wise the only thing on his mind was a nice sausage, being hungry a while after the soccer game. He was still tired, so there was a good chance that he would end up practically taking Italy's head off before the list was finished.

He looked back at his companion, who was still scribbling things down in the miniscule space left there was to put things down. He sighed. "Italy, why don't you go down the pasta isle and get what you need," he said, playing the oblivious. "I'm just down to get a few things, and then we'll go back home."

Italy smiled proudly. "Can do, Germany!" he said. Then he took off in that pathetic run of his with his arms out like he needed extra balance.

Germany rubbed his aching forehead and breathed out. Aside from having Italy as a roommate being the affecting candidate for the enormous jumble that made up a headache, he could blame his loud apartment neighbors (who also had to be either extremely Italian or something, with all the noise they made) for keeping him awake night after night, and Italy waking him up because he didn't want to get out of bed without a light on because he was afraid of the dark, and Italy waking him up when he crawling into the small bed after having a nightmare, or Italy waking him up because he couldn't get the wine open for a midnight snack, or Italy waking him up to show him one of his atrocious movies that somehow got put on the play list, or Italy snoring to loud, or Italy singing in his sleep, or Italy complaining about his sausage, or-

He almost bumped into someone going around the corner. "Excuse me," he mumbled, and started to step around them, when he realized he recognized that person. "Hungary?" He asked, honestly surprised.

The ashy brunette lifted her face to him. Of course Germany would recognize her- she was all he heard about from his brother, Prussia, whenever he was in an agreeable mood. She was surprised as well, holding a basket of low-priced items, but then her face shaped a smile. "It's nice to see you, Germany," she said. Her hair was tied back in one of those bandanas, matching the color of her dress that easily marked her as a maid. Germany didn't know how to greet her, and he wasn't that good at small talk, so he settled with the obviously question; "What are you doing here?" He would've thought Austria would've had his own groceries stores, but it wouldn't have surprised him if the green-thumb had eliminated them to save money.

"Oh," Hungary said, a little breathlessly. "Mr. Austria has invited Switzerland to his house for some discussion. Since he'll be staying a few days, I thought it might be nice for him to have some food he would recognize, and I heard that his meals were influenced by yours, so I thought I might have a look around and see what I could find."

"Right," Germany said, embarrassed that he had almost accused Hungary of intruding. He was more surprised that she wasn't chained to Austria, but somehow she had always been able to be the humble servant, so he didn't question it. He sighed. "Just give him some cheese and he'll be happy as a clam," Germany sighed. "They're not too picky."

"Thank you," Hungary said, and they fell in step together. Germany's chest felt a little tight with how awkward the situation was, considering that neither of them knew they had the exact same question on their minds. Hungary finally asked it as Germany took a bag of potatoes form the produce isle and set it in his basket, "Have you seen-"

"I haven't," Germany answered before she could even finished. Silence took over them again, and Hungary looked nervous and bit her lip. He looked at her. "I was hoping you would've seen him."

Hungary shook her head sadly. "It's been decades," she murmured.

"Me too," Germany said. "About after the collapse of the Berlin Wall. I didn't see him after that."

Hungary sighed, looking anywhere but Germany's face. She had always wondered how it was possible that Prussia and Germany could be related, because they had no similarities whatsoever. She took some potatoes as well from the shelf, taking his advice from earlier. She shook the image of Prussia's face as a child out of her head as it nagged her like a fish nibbling on the leaf of a plant. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It was nice running into you, though. Maybe you could come-"

"_GERMANY! GERMANY!"_ Germany's basket of the things he managed to remember to pick up went flying as Italy soared straight at him. They crashed to the floor and Italy sobbed loudly clinging to him like a startled child. "_Germany, an old lady with a cane threatened me because I asked to borrow her scarf because I really had to blow my nose, and when I tried she hit me with her stick, and it really hurt, Germany, I want to go home, this place is scary and your old ladies are scary and how can you make old ladies scary, they're supposed to stay at home making pies for their grandchildren, not hitting beautiful Italians like me-e-e-e-"_

Germany managed to dodge falling over the stand of oranges in the corner of the store, and had collapsed over the newspaper rack. Everyone within ten meters of distance turned to watch the scenario taking place there. He managed to push Italy off of him and stand, hauling Italy to his feet as well. "What did I tell you about keeping your _hands _to your_self?"_ Germany growled, trying to ignore the beaming stares being thrown at them from every direction.

"I know, I'm sorry Germany, but I really have to blow my nose and all of you Germans are too tight to carry around a handkerchief," Italy sobbed. "And, do you have a tissue or something?" He tried to wipe off what was coming from his nose, and Germany looked away, disgusted.

"I don't, but we'll get you some. Now could you please try to act like a human being and _behave_?" He let go of Italy's shirt collar and backed away, collecting the tossed items all around them. "Hungary, you wouldn't have something Italy can blow his nose on, would you?"

"_Hungary?"_ It appeared that the Italian hadn't realized who they were with yet. Then he saw her, and threw himself at him. "Hungary! It's so nice to see you here, it's been so long, and what are you doing in Germany's grocery stores, usually they're really bare, but he drove me to a really nice one this time! Germany's a really good driver, it puts me to sleep almost every time we go somewhere, isn't that cool? You should try his highways sometime, people go really fast, and sometimes so does Germany, but he'll never admit that to you."

Germany gave an embarrassed gasp behind their backs and scooped up what he'd had and put it back in the bag as Hungary explained to him why she was here. He turned around, composed again, and tapped the rambling Italy on the shoulder. He turned around.

"Did you get what you wanted?" Germany asked him. "I'd like to get home soon."

"Yep!" Italy thrust at him a single box of pasta- and Germany, dumbfounded, tried not to be overly surprised that there was only one box. He put it in the basket anyhow.

"Is that all you wanted? This will only be good for spaghetti, you know," Germany asked.

"That's okay. I don't want to go back down that isle again, because that cranky old lady might still be there."

"Alright," he said. He looked at Hungary. "We'll be going now. Have a good night- if I hear anything from Prussia, I'll make sure to tell you."

"Me too," Hungary promised, and they passed each other.

Italy was silent as he suddenly felt the weight of the conversation hit him like a cinder block. His always-present dreamy smile faded from his face as Germany lead him to the check-out area. As Germany stacked the few items onto the counter for the cashier to scan, Italy was deathly silent, which was extremely rare. The few things were bagged and Germany carried them out, Italy clinging to his single box of pasta as they got into the car.

"Why were you and Hungary talking about your brother, Germany?" Italy finally asked after it had nagged him for about ten minutes.

"Well," Germany started. Then he paused. It was going to be very hard to explain to Italy why he had been so anxious about his brother who had been missing for so long. _He_ didn't even know why he was. It was just a feeling, and Italy was of course going to turn that around into something disgusting, so he thought for a long time, before starting again with; "Do you miss your grandfather sometimes?"

"Sure," Italy said enthusiastically. "But he sings to me when I'm sleeping, so I see him now and then."

"Right," Germany said, choosing to ignore how strange that was. "And he's been gone a long time, hasn't he, but you still miss him."

"Sometimes," Italy admitted.

"It's like that, then. I just didn't miss Prussia right after he disappeared because I was so busy after to war- I suppose you could say it's just sinking in."

"Oh, I _get it…_" Italy said. Germany sighed with relief. Then he said, "It's like after you stop sleeping with your girlfriend for a long time and how it feels weird to be sleeping with clothes on!"

"_That is not what I meant at ALL, Italy!"_

Silence in the vehicle the rest of the way home.

_Meanwhile…_

"I wonder what Canada will have for dinner," America mumbled as they sat in their seats. They had boarded the plain a few minutes ago, which had moved down the runway, and was now sitting there as the pilots got it ready.

"Drop it, America," England sighed from behind the safety procedure brochure.

America was wedged between France and England, probably for the safety of the twenty other people on the plane. He didn't like it. England had the window seat, which America had wanted, and France was taunting the stewardesses by feeling up their legs every time they walked by on dangerous heels. They didn't protest, but they didn't flirt back either, which was only making France even more persistent. He also knew it was going to be impossible to take a nap or go to the bathroom without having to touch either of them, so the seven to eight hour long ride to London would be a long one. He sighed.

"I wonder if this means that Canada is called "Russia Junior" or something now. Dude, that would suck to be topped by Russia, man, could you imagine that?" He continued, sinking low in his seat.

"That sounds disgusting, America," England pointed out, his face a hysterical shade of red.

"You know what I think?" France said, for a second leaving the stewardesses alone as they checked the air ventilation.

England sighed loudly. "What do you think, France? And please, keep you voice low so no one else hears the vulgarity you're about to spew at us."

"I think that Canada and Russia will get along quite well. Canada might not be the toughest of countries, but, ah, they have plenty of similarities between them to keep each other occupied. And not to mention this match will do good for me as well, seeing that Canada is my younger brother and I have a good relationship with Russia, unlike you two pinheads."

"Match?" America wondered. "What do you mean by 'match?' Russia's not gonna like, keep him there for forever, right?"

"You silly boy," France laughed. "You really couldn't explore with your tiny mind what Russia could possibly mean when he tells you to 'become one' with him, did you?"

America's expectant face melted into horror. "Oh crap," he said. The plane's engine started up, and he was thankfully drowned out as he moan: "My brother is about to be molested by a six-foot giant, and I'm _sitting here."_

"Hush," England said, gripping the seats armrests as the plane shot down the runway. Flying didn't bother him. "I really doubt that Russia would possibly take that far, contrary to what our French friend here thinks. Russia has always had a sort of…take-over-the-world outlook on this, and I think you should know that better than anyone else, America. Canada will be fine."

"W-w-whatever you say, man," America said shakily as they plane lifted off the ground. He was a little concerned about Russian planes, and tried not to recall to clearly that Russians were just as acquitted to the atmosphere as he was. "I'm just really worried about him."

The flight commenced without much happening. France had unbuckled the seatbelt and excused himself to the bathroom the second the seatbelt alert was turned off, and America had swiveled around halfway through the first hour of the flight to see France glued by the mouth to an exceptionally tall and slender maid. He turned back in his chair, groaning "blech" with his tongue out and nose scrunched up, and England understood immediately. Annoyed, he reached up and jammed his hand in the air to alert one of them, and the frizzled looking girl managed to make it over to him in time for his to ask for a blanket, and America requested one as well as she walked away. He caught France making a rude gesture toward them, and America scowled as England got the peace-sign backwards toward France. He restrained from telling him, because the stewardess came back with thick blue blankets and he passed England one, who turned toward the window and shut his eyes. America did the same, turning toward France's empty seat, and shut his eyes. He tried to relax enough to get the image of Canada and Russia out of his head, but the thought nagged him until he turned around in his seat toward England.

"Hey, dude?" he whispered in case he was asleep.

"Mm?" England moaned so that America could heard.

"Are you sure Canada will be okay?" America hissed back.

"Yes, I'm sure," England hissed. "And if you're so worried, you can call him to make sure when we get to London. I don't think Russia would really go as far to as block a call from you."

"Right," America said. He paused for a while as the plane rattled with turbulence. "I hope he doesn't get lonely up there."

England bit back the comment he was about to share, and turned around to face America. It was really because he was actually caring about someone that made him worry more about America than Canada- who had proved easily that he could take care of himself- so he sighed. "What are you afraid of, America? Canada hasn't done anything wrong to Russia."

"Well, I know that," America said. He took a deep breath. "I guess it would kind of be my fault if something did happen, because he still hates me about the Cold War thing and Canada is my brother."

England's eyebrows furrowed. "Are you blaming yourself for this?" he asked.

"I dunno," America said tiredly. His eyes started to droop sleepily. England wasn't surprised, he had been walking around in the snow for a while. "I guess I would really miss him if he decided Russia was a better friend than me."

America lightly snored as England sighed and closed his own eyes. He wouldn't say it out loud, but he missed being brothers with America at times as well, and he promised himself to try and make the few days he would spend in London as enjoyable as possible.

_I'd just like to point out I don't really see England and America as a pairing (though it can be cool when they are :D) I just have sort of a soft spot toward their brotherhood._

_Just so any of you are not aware, a backwards peace sign showing your first and middle finger in England is basically the same as flipping someone the bird in America. _

_Also, the few reviews I've had have said I've kept everyone relatively in character… I was happy to get them, and I enjoyed it, but I don't know, it might just be me, but I'd like to know if I'm keeping Germany in character, because he's really hard for me to get his down for some reason. My usual method of making the characters like themselves is to picture their accents in my mind, and I haven't heard a German accent a lot outside of Hetalia (I have one German great-grandmother who is technically not related to me, and she sounds Polish XD) so that's why he might be wavering in and out of character. I don't know- you tell me! Please review!_

_And thanks to those who put this story on their watch list again, it makes my day ten times better!_

_I do not own Hetalia, the characters, places, events, people, anything. Hidekaz Himaryuu does. I don't own anything I might've stolen- and please review! Thanks to those who inspire me!_


	7. Chapter 7

_I do not own Hetalia, the characters, places, events, people, anything. Hidekaz Himaryuu does. I don't own anything I might've stolen- and please review! Thanks to those who inspire me!_

7. Russia's "Secret" Plan

In the hours that Canada had first spent as captive/refuge/hostage/friend in Russia house (he didn't know what to call himself, because apparently he'd made the mistake in saying he wanted to be there in the first place, but he _didn't _want to be there _at all_, so he was very scared and confused on what he was supposed to be in Russia's house) Canada had spent two hours under the careful watch of Russia himself, who probably left once he was comfortable with the knowledge wasn't going to book it out the door on his first chance. He would've liked to- but night was coming around, and with darkness comes cold, not unlike his own homeland which might be very like Russia, he would not know what to expect from the weather and didn't take a fancy to the thought of freezing to death. He'd have to wait until he could negotiate with Russia on the terms of their…agreement…when he was in a more compatible mood.

Russia hadn't been so lenient when Canada tried to address the whole situation as a mistake. Sitting in a house with approximately a dozen rooms and two fireplaces wasn't the way he'd hope to spend his night- he had been looking forward to seeing his older brother, France, and even England, who had always favored himself over his brother, America (or at least tried to make it appear that way. Everyone knew England cared about America and was just too stubborn to admit to so). He had struggled with the choice to come in the first place since, technically, he'd been with the Allies, but he hadn't had much action in the Second World War because everyone kept forgetting he was there. Now, full of dread, he wished he had skipped the idea entirely. No one would've cared, he admitted to himself sadly, and now no one cared or remembered (probably) that he was alone in the house of the most gigantic nation in the entire world, and was at his mercy.

Canada was entirely aware that Russia had no room to boast in the size category- he may be the largest by a good measure, however, Canada was _second _largest, and that he didn't often make clear diligently, however, it should at least be known. But Russia was considerably taller, in human measurements, which was extremely unfair. If personal body size was based on the largeness of country, then Canada should've been at least a bit shorter than Russia, not a full head. It just added to his general scariness, the way he could look down on you with a smile and still make you feel like he was about to string you up. Canada shivered.

"Canada?" A soft voice came from the entrance to the room. Canada looked up- it was Lithuania. He stood in the doorway, lacking body space to fill up enough to make him so noticeable, in a constant state of awareness, which was probably some sort of Russia-radar that all members who stepped into his house quickly developed. Canada figured that Lithuania's was spot-on. "Latvia and Estonia had some food prepared for everybody, and, well, seeing how they left, I figured you might be hungry. Would you like to come into the kitchen and have some dinner? Or would you rather stay here?"

"No- No I'll come to the kitchen," Canada said, and grabbed Mr. Kumajirou from the corner of the tiny bedroom in which he had fled. He didn't want to be a hassle to any of the Baltic States; obviously they had enough to worry about.

Lithuania and Canada tiptoed around the hallway outside Russia's doorway, and then down the stairs again. He lead him past a dark hallway with scary paintings, then into a swinging doorway across the hall to a yellow-tiled kitchen. It was a nice little place- counters on one side of the room, a stove, and cabinets all around over a sink, on the other was a dining table with about five chairs. There was a dining room upstairs, so Canada could only figure that Russia used that one, and never this one. Canada was surprised the kitchen area was so cheerful looking, since everything else was so cold and dark. It was even a cozy temperature in there, he figured it was because of the oven, so he slipped off his coat and carried it on his arm.

"This is Estonia and Latvia," Lithuania said quietly. He pointed to a be speckled dirty-blonde in the corner with a mug of something steamy, and a eleven or ten year old boy licking off a decorated cake on the counter.

"H-hello," Canada said. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Canada."

"Really?" Mr. Kumajirou butt in. Canada ignored him.

"Canada?" Latvia turned away from the cake, one finger with white icing still lifted to his mouth. "Where is that?"

"Silly goose," Estonia said, smiling. "It's the country right above America. He's America's brother?"

"That's right," Canada confirmed. He was used to it. But at least Estonia remembered him- that made him a bit happy.

"Really, feel free to dig in. We've already eaten, so help yourself," Lithuania assured him, handing him a plate. Canada tried not to wonder what was with the sunflower boarder around the rim of a porcelain plate, but he soon filled it was the only thing he could recognize-potatoes, the world-wide starch that everyone was familiar.

He didn't feel out of place, thankfully, which had been one of his key worries. All the States either stood around at the counter and didn't really converse, each of them did their own thing as Canada sat at the table and stirred potatoes around his plate. Really, what he wanted to ask for was that cup of warmth Estonia had been holding. Something to drink would definitely calm him down. He was so scared about what this would mean- but he had no doubts that it would be resolved soon. He could possible be "one" with Russia-right? There was nothing significant about him, nothing anyone would really want, right? It was America that everyone wanted, with his massive oil reserves and national parks. Not Canada. Never Canada.

He started to feel a bit homesick and worried, that he couldn't eat. He stared at the plate of potatoes that he'd hardly touched, and sat while listening to a small banter between Estonia and Latvia. He figured that the argumentative behavior was normal, since Lithuania stood in the corner of the room without so much as to try to change views. This house, so cold, was so quiet that his skin started to crawl. He hadn't been there a day, and already he was starting to panic. He couldn't stay here. He'd need to think up a plan, or something. Canada didn't like how no one wanted to talk to each other because they couldn't afford to be distracted in case Russia suddenly came in. It was impossible to be friendly on that whim- but he, too, was listening for footsteps outside the door in case Russia decided to come down.

"Canada, are you finished? You can put what you didn't eat in the refrigerator for later, in case you might want it," Estonia said. Canada jumped.

"Oh," he gathered the plate and his whit as quickly as possible. "Sure, thank you."

Lithuania noticed the full-plate of potatoes, and pitied him. It was obvious Canada didn't want to be there, much like all of them, however, it was too late for Lithuania to leave Russia's house, and Canada wasn't used to the constant fear they lived in. Canada didn't know what foods tasted like what, didn't know where the places in the house Russia never visited anymore were, and didn't know the best ways to get out of a situation with Russia. He watched Canada timidly sit back down at the kitchen table, unaware what else there was to do, and started to walk toward him to try and make some friendly conversation.

The door swung open. The shadow that passed over the doorway clearly showed that it was Russia, however, he didn't step any farther inside than the doorway.

"I have a new idea for world domination," Russia said cheerfully, sticking his head in the room. His ears and forehead was covered with a fluffy cap, and his hands fit into wool mittens. Canada almost choked, but the idea wasn't surprising to the States as they steadily caught their breath as they shook in fear.

"T-that's wonderful, Russia," Estonia said with a fabricated smile, putting down his cup of tea. "What is it?"

Russia paused, "hmmm-ing". He was buttoning up a coat. "I don't think I will tell you. It is a brilliant plan, though. Goodbye!"

And, like he brought up the subject on a whim every day, he turned around and left as the door swung back and forth behind him.

The second the front door slammed down the hall, the room bust into chaos.

Lithuania shot to the phone like he'd been pulled by a magnet. "I've got to warn Poland!" He cried, frantically dialing the phone. "What if he attacks Poland? He'd never stand a chance, him and his ponies, oh no- what will we do, this is awful!" He gripped the phone to his ear, his eyes huge. "Pick up, please pick up," he chanted, the cheap plastic of the phone sliding under his tight grip.

"I don't think Russia could stand being one with Poland, Lithuania," Estonia pointed out.

Lithuania was beyond the point of consolation. The phone rang and rang as he gnawed on his fingers. Latvia, in the corner, started to panic as well; "What if he gets into a nuclear war with the whole world, Estonia, I couldn't stand living in a place like Chernobyl all the time, that would be horrible!" He jumped down from the counter and grabbed Estonia's coat. "And what if he blows up Sealand, then I'd have no friends, not even you!"

"I'm going to call Switzerland and make sure he and his little sister will be alright," Estonia said, walking out of the kitchen after pealing Latvia from his shirt and . He paused in the doorway with the swinging latch still open. He looked back at Canada. "You might want to call your brother, seeing how he did make Russia mad today. Lithuania, don't take too long, let Canada use the phone after you."

Lithuania furiously dialed what must've been Poland's number a second time, and when he got the voicemail again, the message he left went something like this: "Poland! Poland, you need to take your ponies and get somewhere safe, I'm not kidding you, Mr. Russia is really angry right now, we had guests, and I don't think threats is going to get you out this time, so please, if he comes to your house, don't try to smooth talk your way out of it, or else he might clobber you with that awful cane!"

"It's a faucet," Estonia corrected him, but Lithuania was out the double doors before anything could be said. Canada could hear him screaming, "I HAVE TO GO HELP HIM! THIS IS AWFUL!" as he leapt out the door. Canada hoped he didn't go without a coat, but he wouldn't have been surprised.

The phone swung from it's corkscrew cord, and Canada stood from his chair and went over to it. The operator on the other end was saying something about calling again, and Canada pushed the little knob, and the dial tone hummed through the receiver. He dialed America's phone number carefully, and it rang. Once. Twice. Three times- then voicemail. Canada didn't bother leaving a message, knowing fully well that America didn't care enough to actually listen to them. He hung up the phone, alone in the kitchen, then picked it back up and dialed his cell phone number. It rang, and rang, and on the third ring, there was a muffled, "Hello?"

"America?" Canada gasped into the phone. He clutched the green device with both his hands. "Are you there?" There was an awful lot of static coming through the earpiece, and Canada shoved his finger into his open ear. America was saying something, but Latvia's thumping footsteps were getting in the way of him making it out.

"Huh? …it's me…who is this?" America said. The phone made a loud static-filled screach, which made Canada shiver.

"It's me, Canada," he said, speaking low enough not to be heard above, but loud enough that America might.

"Canada? Oh, seriously?" America's voice was surprisingly enthusiastic. Canada couldn't remember a time America had really wanted to see him, but he was alright with it.

"Yeah, it's me, but I've got some bad news-"

"Dude, England, it's Canada, Russia didn't rape him!" America's voice said- and there was a muffled snore on the other end that was undoubtedly England. He, for one, didn't sound enthused. "Canada, I'm so glad you're okay! Listen, I'll come and get you soon, I just don't know when-"

"No, America," Canada desperately interjected. "Listen, Russia just came by saying something-"

"- 'Cuz I'm the hero, and that's what I do! Don't worry, and don't freeze to death in the time that I-"

"_America! Shut that device this instant, there are people trying to catch beauty sleep, no?"_ France's strangely annoyed voice waxed it's way to the peak of a scream through the phone. "Hey, now," America appeared to be saying, and there was a fumbling noise. "Let go! Hey!" A few more shouts and curses Canada interpreted as French, and the line went dead. Canada stood there with a dead phone, his eyes wide.

He was in Russia, he didn't have any friends, and Russia was out trying to dominate the world.

_Meanwhile…_

"I hope this room will be alright for your stay," Austria said. He watched as Switzerland peered into the room quizzically. Of course it would do, he thought, looking at the stately mattress and elegant chairs. "I know you are used to more simple surroundings, so I had Hungary fix it up for you."

Switzerland bit back a nasty remark at that as Austria turned his back on him and exited the hallway. He wasn't about to pick a fight with his host, no matter how snooty he was being. Of course Austria would try and show himself up, but unfortunately, it didn't take much effort. He walked over to the bed and threw his small suitcase on the bed, packed with limited clothing in case he needed an excuse to return home. The windows were open in the corner, towering above his head and filtering the light in from a garden outside. It looked lovely, having it just rained, so he sat down.

He tried not to worry about Liechtenstein too much- she could take care of herself, no matter how sad she was that he was leaving. Though, as family, he did fret just a little. She could cook, she knew not to let in strangers, she knew to be polite over the phone, and she knew that, if anything would happen, Germany wasn't too much of a douche bag to not let her into his house. He trusted Germany only that much- but mainly because she had once lived with him and didn't expect him to do anything suspicious. And there were no threats, the weather was supposed to be nice. Switzerland let himself relax just a little before breakfast came along.

Although, in their home about a hundred miles away, the phone rang.

Liechtenstein picked herself from where she lay on her stomach in her room and walked down the hallway to pick up the phone hanging on the wall. It stopped ringing, and she said "Hello?" into it.

"Liechtenstein?" It was Estonia- she only remembered him from the very few times she'd ever conversed with him. "Liechtenstein, is your big brother at home?"

Liechtenstein pondered for a moment, and supposed it was safe to tell him the truth. "No, he isn't," she said. "Is it important?"

There was a pause. Then he said, "Ah…no, not really. But do you know where I might reach him?"

"Sure," Liechtenstein confirmed. "He's spending a couple nights at Mr. Austria's house. I'm sure if you call him you could talk to him."

"Oh, thank you," Estonia said. "I hope you're doing well."

"I am," she assured him.

"Good. Well, have a nice day, alright?"

"Thank you." She hung up the phone feeling a little strange. She walked into the kitchen, a little hungry for breakfast. I wonder what that was all about, she thought to herself as she flipped toast into the little machine and got out the jam. It browned, and flipped outward: she picked it up with the tips of her fingernails so not to burn herself and set it on a plate. As she spread the jam over her toast, a rain cloud passed over the window. Switzerland didn't use a lot of electricity in her house, so she ate her breakfast in the dark.

Later that afternoon, against Switzerland's judgment, it rained.

In Austria's house, Switzerland took himself from the security of his makeshift room, and walked down the hall toward the dining room. He made it about halfway before Austria's rich looking home started to really bug him- he knew he was being jealous, really, but…but he and Liechtenstein were cozy in their cottage, and it was meaningless, he told himself, and picked up his pace.

In the dining room, Austria was already seated. The table was about as long as Switzerland's home, so he sat at the very end of it. Austria looked like a doll. In a matter of seconds, a maid was beside him, and set before him a dish: eggs, toast, sausage, hashed potatoes… Switzerland blinked at the meal, recalling that he usually went with something small but filling. He didn't know if he could finish it all, really, but he picked up his fork and cut the sausage.

"I don't know where Hungary is, really," Austria said. He had to speak loudly for it to properly reach Switzerland. "She went out for some groceries, but she hasn't come back yet."

That was the only upside of his visit, Switzerland realized, and tried not to scowl openly. He had wanted to ask Hungary if she had any hand-me-downs for Liechtenstein, so she could at least sport something that wasn't hand-made or from a thrift store. Also, Hungary was sweet and nice, so maybe she could keep Austria off his back for the next couple days. He stuffed egg into his mouth. "That's too bad," he mumbled.

"What?" Austria called.

A maid then walked beside him, and bent down to Austria's ear. The spoke for a second, and then she disappeared. Austria went back to his eating, and Switzerland tried to shake off how suspicious that was, but Austria then informed him; "I just was told you got a call from Estonia. You can eat your meal, and then call him back."

Switzerland was caught by surprise. Estonia? A Baltic State- one of those poor enslaved countries beside Russia? What would he want? "Was it urgent?" Switzerland asked, raising his voice so that Austria could hear.

"I don't know," Austria said. He patted his mouth with a napkin. "But he already called your house, and when you weren't there, he got your number from Liechtenstein. It might've been."

Switzerland stood up, leaving two-thirds of his meal. "I'm going to call him now," he said, blocking out Austria's mumbles of "rude" as he exited the room. Silly Liechtenstein, he thought. She was sweet and innocent, but didn't she know better than to tell people that she was home alone? He'd have to run through that when he got back. He walked into a lavish hall with white paneled walls and golden trim, where an old fashioned telephone sat on a little table with some flowers next to it. Forgetting how to use it momentarily, he fumbled around with the dials and switches since he'd used a house phone and a cell phone for almost thirty years now, but he got the hang of it, and the phone rang to the beat of a dial. There was a pause between three, and near to the forth, a clatter picked up the phone, and a whispery voice answered.

"Hello? This is…um, Russia's house…"

Switzerland was familiar with all the household members of Russia's crew, however, he couldn't remember even hearing someone over the phone that sounded like this person. Maybe he got a servant- it wouldn't surprise Switzerland- or maybe it was Lithuania or Latvia and the reception was bad. It was definitely an option, especially with how old the phone was. "Um, hello," he couldn't address whoever it was since he didn't know them by sound, but he knew it was clearly not Estonia. "This is Switzerland, I got a call I couldn't make a second ago. Can you put him on the line, please?"

"Oh," the voice said, tittering. "He just went outside to get Lithuania back. Do you know what he needed?"

Switzerland was starting to get annoyed with not knowing who was talking to him. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude," he said into the phone, his voice a little hard. "But who _is _this?"

"I'm…I'm Canada…" The voice said sadly.

Now that was definitely a surprise. He knew he, too, fell victim to completely forgetting who Canada was, and that wasn't something he had to be ashamed about since everyone did it, but at least he had the excuse that it was over the phone. The real question was, however, what was he doing at Russia's house? "I'm sorry," Switzerland amended quickly. "I didn't recognize you over the phone… but Estonia called my little sister and she gave him this number, saying it was something important." he didn't like the idea of playing phone-tag with someone a thousand kilometers away just to get a bit of info that probably meant nothing at all, but it would be impolite to ignore Estonia.

"Oh, right," Canada said. "I know what it is."

"Can you tell me?" Switzerland said. "And then you can tell Estonia he doesn't have to call me back."

"Yeah. He said he was going to call you to make sure you and your sister were alright."

Despite the sentimental intentions, Switzerland was a little confused. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"Russia just left about an hour ago saying he had a new plan to conquer the world…Estonia wanted to make sure you guys knew just in case he wandered by your house or something. Apparently this is sort of a normal thing, so I wouldn't be worried, nobody here is…well, most everybody."

"Take over the world?" Well, that sounded typical Russia. Switzerland scowled. But, it was an excuse to get home to Liechtenstein sooner than he had expected, but he shook his head. She'd be fine, he assured himself, and then he switched the topic. "Does your brother know?" He asked Canada, meaning America. If anyone was going to take the news wrong and do something stupid, it would be him. "If it's a false alarm, maybe you should wait to tell him."

"That's good advice," Canada said. "I did try to tell him, but I guess he was doing something and the phone cut off before I could."

"Maybe it's for the best," Switzerland said.

"What's for the best?" Austria was suddenly behind him. Switzerland looked over his shoulder and shook his head, telling him to be quiet because Canada's whispery voice was extremely hard to hear with background noise.

"…you're probably right, though," Switzerland had missed something Canada was saying. "Well, I think that was all he wanted. Is there anything you want me to relate to Estonia?"

"Um…no, I don't think so," Switzerland said. "But I just have a question, if it's not to much."

"What is it?"

"Why are you at Russia's house? Not to be nosy, but isn't that…a little strange?"

There was a pause with a really long sigh from Canada. Behind him, Austria was leaning forward to hear the best he could. "It's…a really long story. I don't think I'll be hear much longer, though."

"Oh, alright," Switzerland said. Still, he was curious to what it was. "Well, um, have a good day, then. Thanks for giving me the heads up, anyway."

"Sure. Bye…"

The phone went dead, and Switzerland set it on the receiver. Austria swamped him before he could fully turn around to look him in the face. "What was that? Why was Canada on the phone, you said you were calling Estonia."

"Canada's at Russia's house for some reason," Switzerland sighed, running a hand through his hair as he jumbled out the confusing mess that was set in front of him now. "But he wanted to make sure that my sister and I were okay…apparently Russia's got some new plan to take over the world, or something."

Austria scoffed, blowing the only curly piece of hair out of his face. "Pathetic," he said. "He and America are so immature these days."

"Right," Switzerland agreed. "But I think I should go home and make sure things are okay with her. If it's urgent enough to make a call-"

"Oh, no," Austria said as Switzerland made an attempt to walk around him. "Russia is just going to end up drunk in some snow mound. You and I had this scheduled, and I'm not letting some giant with mental problems mess it up just to be a false alarm." He sighed. "And if you're that worried about your sister, I can send Hungary over to your house in case anything happens."

Switzerland's mouth mashed together; he didn't like Austria butting in over some financial problems when Russia was on some rampage, babbling about taking over the world. The last 'false alarm' ending with some accident over in Cuba had almost resulted in a nuclear war. He didn't quite want Liechtenstein around something like that. But he did make plans, Switzerland thought, and Liechtenstein wasn't a threat to anybody since she didn't even have an army. Anything Switzerland could do for her in a time like this, Hungary could as well, he guess, and who knew- perhaps Lilly would get something out of being around Hungary and act a little more ladylike. It might be good for her. The worried look on his face burned his cheeks when he realized it, and he turned his head away. "Okay, call Hungary for me," he said. "If it's any trouble, she can just bring her here with her."

"That's more like it," Austria said, and he walked around Switzerland to the phone. "They'll get along, have some gossip for the next few days, and then it'll be solved," He summed up as he twisted the dials around. The ringer picked up, and Austria started talking into the phone.

"I hope so," Switzerland grumbled, walking away from all this. He went back to the table and sat before his now cold meal, unable to touch it. It was a stupid thing to think about, Russia trying to take over the world and merely announcing it to everybody. The way it was spreading around like wildfire was just going to make it able to be solved in days. All he had to do was stick out a few days with Austria.

_After probably two months, chapter seven is up. Sorry for such the…er…wait. Please review!_


	8. Chapter 8

_I don't own Hetalia, I think we know that by now. All the characters, places, people in Hetalia belong to Hidekaz Himaryua, and I don't own anything that I might've stolen form anyone else. Please review!_

Chapter Eight: The Deadline

America's legs felt like jelly when he stepped off the plane. In London, it was eight o' clock in the morning. In America, it was two.

But being in Moscow certainly had him confused. The International Date Line crossed between Alaska and Russia, meaning that he'd taken a trip into _yesterday, _and then flew into _today. _He tried to ask about how that exactly worked, but as England and he climbed into a car while France drove off with an excuse about something to do with his Boss, all he got was a lengthy explanation that he didn't understand about how it was possible. When England found out he hadn't been listening about halfway through, he scowled and looked out the window. America sat back in the passenger seat and yawned loudly. He wanted to sleep- but then again, he had promised Canada he was going to save him, so he had to stay awake a bit longer. Only, England probably thought he was going to stay longer than America intended, which was a problem- he didn't really want to intentionally hurt England's feelings by taking off seconds later back to Moscow- could Canada wait a day or two? He didn't know. Well, with France talking about the 'Becoming One' situation he wondered exactly how long Canada could wait.

England's house was actually a flat on the street closest to Buckingham Palace; a white building with little gold trimmings and old furniture. Since America didn't have a change of clothes because the trip had been entirely on a whim, England tried to lend him some of his own- but the height difference between them had all of the clothes squeezing in a couple uncomfortable places. Instead they threw Alfred's clothes that had been through a march in the snow in the wash, while America sat on a bed in the other room wrapped in a blanket. Outside, snow fell- it was certainly winter everywhere, but England's snow was warm and fluffy, whereas in Russia it was packed and hard, so America watched the weather through his window with a view of the palace and cars driving around the courtyard outside it. No matter the weather, people still stood outside the palace and pressed against the bars in hopes for a view of the queen- America wondered if England would want him to visit. He had met the Queen before, however he and England had been bade to stand in the background while their bosses made decisions. Though they had shook hands, while America forced a grin and she mumbled something having to do with his Independence. Obviously everyone British hadn't forgotten about the war; then again, Americans didn't have it all sweet when came to talking to English people as well. America sat on the cushioned seat by the windowsill with a flowery quilt that wasn't very dignifying wrapped around his shoulders and listened to his iPod. About an hour later, he heard England call out to him that his clothes were finished, and he waddled into the hallway, hoping that England wasn't going to pop up and make fun of him, but he didn't. His clothes were a lot softer than he remembered, but that might be because he did his laundry rather wantonly, and from tumbling around the dryer for a half hour, they were cozy and warm. He walked into the kitchen section a little sleep drunk, completely content with his situation, and crashed into a chair by the table.

England looked a little alarmed at first, but he shook his head with two mugs steaming hot of something, and pushed one toward him and sat across from him. England chuckled. "You look like you could use a nap," he said as he took a sip of his drink.

"Dude," America said as he reached for the mug. "I feel like I could pass out right now."

"Well, it's only ten," England said, looking at the time that had changed since America had stepped in his apartment. America didn't like the time zone problem- why couldn't they just all be on one schedule? Of course, England _had _explained why, but he hadn't listened. England took a pause by drinking again. "Why don't we go on a walk at noon? You haven't been to my country for a long time; I would suppose you'd like to see it a little bit."

America timidly drank out of his cup, expecting the bitter taste of tea- instead, he got something rich and thick, absolutely rolling down his throat with deliciousness. England had given him hot chocolate instead. Clearly he remembered America's distaste for the bitter drink and had given him something else, or he wanted to make him stay as long as possible, either way, he'd even added marshmallows, and America's eyes crossed and widened to try and look at the drink as he slurped it down quicker than he should've. His throat burned, but in a matter of seconds, he'd finished the drink and set the mug down on the table, a little ring of brown over his top lip. He wiped it off, and sank even farther into his chair. "Sure," he agreed, not even remembering what England had suggested. Now he was incredibly tired, and his head started to dip back….

"Come on," England laughed, pulling America out of his chair and to his feet, who protested pathetically for about a second, and then batted England's hands from his. "I was going to take you to the London Eye, but I suspect it'd be very cold. We can ride a double decked bus, if you like."

"Aw, _sweet_!" America cried, clapping his hands together, then enthusiastically pulling on his aviator's jacket like he hadn't just been almost passing out. He ran to the door. "I love those things, we should just sit on them for hours and sing "The Yellow Submarine" while we're doing it!"

"Um, that's not exactly what I had in mind," England stammered as America pulled him back down the steps and out into the snow. He almost crossed the street when a car was coming straight at them at a dangerous speed, but England gave a gasp and pulled him back while the driver honked his horn and made a rude British gesture that America still didn't recognize.

"Yeah, peace, man!" America shouted, lifting two fingers back at the driver, who sped away angrily. England shook his head, and they walked into the road together when it was safe.

_Meanwhile…_

Russia went south of his country, past Mongolia and into China. He _did _have a plan, one that he found rather ingenious, but he did have to bribe China about it. He knew where to find him, in his office building where he was always screaming over affairs with exports to America. If he was lucky enough, he'd catch China in a bad enough mood toward the country, which would help his plan immensely. He walked up the stairs and into the building that he hadn't seen since the Cold War, but he still remembered, all the Chinese people about two feet shorter than him and gaping at his tallness. His hands in the pocket of his long coat, he took another two stair flights, and then rounded the corner through a tiled hallway and into a small office, where he did, in fact, stumble upon a rather enraged Wang Yao.

Russia was one to remember China's strength, but he didn't expect him to be angry enough to throw a file cabinet at the wall next to him while a few humans ducked out of the way in fear. China, wearing a long shirt-like outfit with sleeves that covered his hands that was deep green, and his hair was in the trademark ponytail tied at the left side of his neck. The country crumpled papers in his hands and then whirled on Russia like he grudge was with him, his teeth grit, his eyes wide. The few humans ran out of the room and sprinted out of the hall while China acted like Russia had been there all along, who shut the door behind him, and China through a desk object Russia didn't get a clear view of as it flew at him, broke the glass window on the door and clattered into the hall.

"_YOU!" _China was obviously ready to be angry at anyone at this point. Usually he was generally happy to see Russia, if that was even possible, but now his boss must've brought something up that he didn't like. Not many countries were very particular with their bosses, China being one of them, so it wasn't hard to believe he was being forced into something he didn't like…again. He flung himself the five-meter distance that closed between them a lot faster than Russia had intended, and China waved the papers in his face while he grabbed a fistful of Russia's long black coat. China's face was red with anger, and he quickly skipped to accusations while Russia tried to push his hands off him. "It's your fault! If we had bombed America thirty years ago like you were intending, _he wouldn't own me billions of dollars he's never going to pay me back-aru!" _China screeched, his voice an octave higher than Russia's ears particularly liked. "I hate you-aru! You broke your promise-aru, and now I have to DEAL WITH HIM-ARU!"

Well, he definitely caught China at the exact time he was hoping for. As China raged, Russia picked the paper out of his fist and looked at the sums that added up to a number so large that he laughed out loud in America's misfortune. Russia tucked the paper back into China's jacket and smiled. "I actually have an idea that can help you, China," Russia said cheerfully, causing the nation to stop screaming in his native language that Russia thankfully did not understand (which was probably for his own good) and with a small push, he shoved China into a chair to try and get him to calm down. The chair wobbled a little, but Russia bent down to China's height, whose lips were pressed together in anger, and Russia smiled. "I can make up for the money America owes you," he said.

China gave a look with arched eyebrows that obviously marked Russia as mentally unstable. But they both knew that, in the least, and his hands gripped the chair as he leaned away. "I don't want _your _money-aru," he said angrily as he bent away. Of course he wouldn't want Russia's money- his country wasn't exactly the wealthiest, and that wasn't exactly a promise China wanted to lean on. She clasped his hands together, wrung them for a minute then angrily took his own shirt and threw a mini-tantrum in the chair, almost kicking Russia in the face. "I want America to give me back my money-aru! My people are still starving-aru!"

"I know, old friend," Russia said, smiling, tapping China's leg with his hand. China became immediately uncomfortable, but he was used to the friendliness Russia acted with, and it wasn't hard for his personal space to be a little violated around him, because the bubble of uncomfortable-ness for him was small than most, but it was just in Russia's nature to be involuntarily touching people. China and Russia _did _have an alliance, which hadn't exactly held together very well since the end of the eighties, but they still remembered clearly the days they'd spent as friends. After the awful serious of crushing tension between America and Russia (China wasn't sure how Russia had lived under so much pressure, but his senses weren't exactly the most up to tune in the world) Russia and China didn't see each other often, but it wasn't a bad thing that he was around now. "_I _will pay you back. Every cent. I know you won't want me to, but I have a plan. America won't be able to probably ever, and he's been telling you lies for a long time. We both know that, but you can help me crush America-"

China jumped up, causing Russia to have to lean back on the floor in a sitting position with wide eyes. "No-aru," he said stiffly, walking away from him to the other side of the room. That offer was much too familiar for him to freely accept. "The last time you talked like that, your Union collapsed and my state lost hundred of people-aru-" His hands become claws around his heart, and he didn't continue. He didn't need to, his face was pained as he murmured incoherent things about the war.

"But it was worth watching America bleed," Russia said, standing up as well as China turned away on the other side of the room. Russia lifted his hand, recalling the dark red blood that dripped off both of their hands throughout the fifties, and China, who wasn't going to look at him, grimaced.

China remembered America's face as he swore to kill them both, that face they both hated equally, and yet, even though both tier relationships were bitter, they loved him as well. Russia had been spared, he knew there was a possibility Poland would've taken a huge chunk of his land if he had really wanted to after the collapse, not to mention the Baltic States as well had a little bit of triumph to go with, so he couldn't help but give the bitter sense of mercy toward America that had lasted almost thirty years until now. And China- the poor, poverty-ridden country would be nothing if America didn't greedily take in so much from him. Yes, the feeling of a bitter, tasteless love toward that country was a mutual feeling between he and Russia. And yet, China wasn't ready to give in.

"But he wasn't as reliant on your imports then," Russia continued, beckoning China to look at him again, whose fists clenched. When he didn't turn, Russia's face turned from his usual friendly look to something completely solid. Russia continued in a leering voice, his eyes hooded and dark; "I can get America on his knees if you help me, China."

The thought of that was almost too appealing to the both of them. Yet, China still didn't quite give in. He wasn't ready to trust Russia so easily a second time, though he knew that China was one of his only true friends. "How would you do that-aru?" China snapped, this time whirling around, his face and hair disarray. He stuck with still being angry, because it was impossible for Russia to be believed with the first offer. He flailed his hands in front of Russia's face to try and clear the madness that obviously lay there in a purple cloud around his face that was perfectly imaginary. "Without starting a war with your stupid yellow missiles, there's no way you can-"

"I don't need bombs," Russia said. He paused, thinking. "But I _do _have them," he amended at China's disgusted look as he turned his head away and looked at the wall. The wall, _his _office, an office with picture from his history and paintings. Most of them were of the children that mostly hated him, but one of them- one small, black-and-white picture he wished wasn't hanging there right now, was of him and Russia, China clothed in a uniform he hadn't looked at in years with lapels and medals, smiling with one arm around Russia's shoulder closest to him, and Russia, with a brilliant uniform as well, both of them waving to a crowd that had long dispersed, and would never support the same cause again.

"You see, China," Russia said softly, spreading out his hands as if to gesture to himself and the long black coat he wore with a black vest layered underneath with a dark red shirt, the color of the flag with one hint of gold in the top left corner, and yet, his eyes were dark, murderous. This was a kind of Russia that no one like to look at, but one China had to cope with. "I am now a _federation._ Not a country to some, isn't that sad?"

China crossed his arms and pointed his nose in the air to try and avoid Russia's clearly convincing ideas. He had fell for them before, and now he was repeatedly telling himself not to do it again, but he couldn't help himself. "What would you want me to do if I agreed-aru?" He sniffed.

"I want you to threaten him," Russia said simply.

China snapped around, his eyes wild. "NO-aru!" He cried, ready to throw something at him again, but Russia had his hands up in careful balance. "I'm not going to try and bring war on _America, _you fool-"

"Not _war,_ silly," Russia laughed, trying to pat the top of China's head in a poor attempt of calming him down. "Give him a deadline to pay you back. His expenses are too deep to pay you back too quickly. I can do the rest."

China actually didn't think it was a bad idea. He wouldn't need to do much, clearly. He shifted a little and blinked. "That…doesn't sound to bad-aru," he mumbled. Russia wasn't expecting him something completely ridiculous like last time, at least. Then he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall and chuckled. "I suppose you want me to make the deadline too soon for him to possibly make up-aru."

"Of course."

Russia was giving the outlook to China as a genius now.

"Alright-aru," China said, walking over to a desk cluttered with papers he'd flung in various places moments before. He picked up an old phone and dialed a number. "I don't know what the rest of your plan is, but I'll call him right now-aru." Then, he gave Russia a pointed look that brought back so many memories of the days where they had walked through the snow-covered fields together covered in blood that was both theirs and America's, coughing with a death that might've came too soon for the both of them. China didn't like thinking about those days- his tactical option had been to beg for America's forgiveness by carelessly making everything he could possibly need for him in attempt to have him not attack him. The phone rang in his air, and he looked pointedly at Russia with tight lips. "Every cent-aru," he confirmed, making his face as serious as he could manage. He was making a huge gamble doing something like this with Russia _again, _and yet, he trusted Russia as easily as he had before.

"I promise," Russia said with a convincing nod, his arms by his sides. And yet, his voice was like poison, that crazy smile on his lips he'd worn for most of the Cold War, a tone that China wasn't so easy to trust a second time. Russia wasn't looking or dressing as normal as he usually did, which was a sign that he had a pretty good plan. Of course, the Soviet Union's uniform was what he'd worn for a long time, and when it fell, he reverted back to a similar beige coat he'd worn during the second World War. Now his scarf wasn't tied around his neck but hung loosely around his shoulders, it was warmer in China that Russia, so he guessed he'd loosened it when he entered the office, and the long coat was now black like the sort of dark aura he always carried. China looked away from his old friend.

A second later, China gave a frustrated sigh and slammed the phone down, causing the little bell to ding slightly, and he hit the phone so it scooted with a loud protest over the side of the desk. "He's not answering his damn phone-aru," he said, disgusted. "He's probably playing Japan's stupid video games again-aru."

Russia laughed, starting to turn toward the door and leaving China in a destroyed office. "Leave him a message for him to find, then."

China called again, and this time, America picked up. He cleared his throat, relishing the smile on his lips as Russia walked out the door and into the hallway, the same look on his face, and spoke in the most civil voice he could manage without laughing in triumph.

_Meanwhile…_

"_AMERICA GET DOWN."_

The nation hung _outside _the bus while holding onto the railing, lagging outside the window England sat in now. The bus driver gave a concerned glance behind him, shaking his head and mumbling something about tourists. England pressed, concerned, against the window as America cackled loud enough for him to hear, the window blowing and stinging his face with it's coldness a little, then he switched to hold on with his feet as England screamed in horror from the inside and America stuck his thumbs in his ears and made faces at him, waggling his fingers. People on the road pointed and laughed, some stared, even, and when all the blood ran up to his face which was almost frozen now, while England was having a seizure trying to scream loud enough for America to hear him, he grabbed the railing and propped himself back up and made his way back down the stairs, rubbing his arms. He laughed as England stood up, a crazed look on his face, and America sat down beside him with a thump. They were the only ones on the bus, since most people were staying inside because of the cold, so there was plenty of room for his to bother England by goofing off.

And he was bothered. England looked away from him with his arms crossed and sat back down, shoved beside the window with America's body right next to his. "That's enough of your immature attitude," he said through grit teeth. "Really, you could've gotten killed."

"Oh, nah," America was a little too nonchalant than England really liked to admit. He sat back with his hands behind his head, and taking up a little too much room. It was almost lunchtime, so England guessed he was acting so reckless because he was so hungry. "So," America said. "Where next?"

"How about we get some fish and chips?" England said, knowing that if he was going to feed his younger brother anything it should be that. He took America's cell phone from his pocket and handed it back to him, since when America had first thought of the idiotic idea he'd asked him to hold onto it so that it wouldn't fall out of his pockets. "You got a call," he remembered.

"Was it Canada?" America said, shoving it back in his pocket.

"No, it wasn't Canada," England said, a little irritated that America was still worried despite his constant promises that he would be alright.

"Okay, cool," America said.

The bus pulled around a couple streets while England then scooted out of the seat, marking the right place and they paid the fee with a little extra from England for the trouble, then walked out into the snow. As they walked, America marveled the excessive amount of pigeons _everywhere _and laughed as they flew away when they got too close. England smiled- at least they were having a little bit of fun. They walked into a little restaurant with red and white tiled and ordered their meal, then walked back into the snow while America tossed them a couple of his chips so they might come closer.

Then, about five minutes later, his cell phone rang again, and England quickly took his meal from his hands as America fumbled through his pockets for his phone. England walked a ways to give him a little privacy, and America flipped open the phone and grinned. "Hellllllloooooo!" He said, a little too enthusiastically.

"America," the voice was highly confidential. Someone was obviously not in the mood for joking around, making America frown. "This is China-aru."

"Oh, China, hey," America squirmed under the pressure of talking to China. He tried to avoid him as best he could, because being around him was a bit embarrassing. A little ways in front of him, England was talking to a little group of people who clearly adored him. America had a feeling England interacted with his citizens more than most people. "What's up?" He asked finally, his voice a little nervous.

"I'm calling you about the debt you owe me-aru," China stated clearly.

"Oh, right, that-"

China didn't let him interupt. His voice came back before America could speak any more than he tried. "Yes, that-aru," he said. "I need that money, America. Lots of poverty here, you see. That's why I'm giving you one week to pay me back-aru. I expect the entire sum by then."

"_A WEEK?_" America screamed, horrified. Across the way, England turned away from the people for a second to give a concerned look. America pulled a hand through his hair, his heart pounding in his chest. "Listen, man, I really don't think I can pull it together by then, can you give me just…a little more time?"

"No good-aru," China said simply. "You have until then. Have a good day!"

The phone went dead. America let his hand fall to his side, his mouth open. He was already almost bankrupt- but this? It would crush him. He'd have to cut more jobs, he'd have to make more people homeless, he'd have to…to….

"America?" England was close in his face as the country wasn't responding. "What's wrong? Hello?"

America took a hard swallow and collected himself carefully. Then his snapped the phone shut, and slid it in his pocket, and looked at England grimly. "I'm dead, man."

_I have my mother to thank for telling me about the massive debt America has to China, so she technically gave me that idea. Yes, America owes a lot of money to just about everybody, and if you watch Hetalia on Youtube, there's actually a commercial telling exactly who. I don't know the technical amount of money we owe China, but is has to be a huge amount. This chapter is shorter than the others, but I think it's pretty critical to be so. Please review!_


	9. Chapter 9

_I do not own Hetalia, the characters, events, anything. Hidekaz Himaruya has copyright over it, and I own nothing I might've stolen. Thanks to all those who inspire me! (And please review, as always)_

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><p>Chapter Nine: Ponies, Alarms and Lots of Airports<p>

America and England completely forgot about their lunches as soon as the call had ended, and as America ran after the nearest bus, England shoved the packages of fish and chips into the arms of the three civilians he'd been chatting with and then took off in a mad flurry after America. Foolishly enough, as America ran he frantically dialed the number to his boss's office, which was bound to be busy as usual, but if he could get a hold of the secretary, then all would be well. The one problem with England being worried about America was that he didn't know what to be worried about for him- and that things could only be under some sort of a disaster: America never acted this way. He usually coasted among a crisis and didn't really care, he usually let his boss take care of it (which was what they were ultimately supposed to do, and it might've been because England was older and had more experience that he liked to poke his nose in here and there) even though usually he ended up bloody in the end. All countries did get some scratches, however, the last time America had been so frantic about something was during the attack on Pearl Harbor. He'd really lost his control then. England hoped for the sake of the person on the other end- hoped they'd watch out, to be exact.

America ended up hailing a cab instead, and as England dove in almost as he closed the door on his feet, landing just so that he shoved America into the window and sent his phone flying. Well, that was a chance, at least. "What's going on?" England hissed, and gave the driver his address, who was a little old lady that could hardly drive at all.

"Bad stuff, man," America said. He had a horrible habit of keeping 'bad stuff' a secret until it was at it's worse- I.e.: the financial crisis he was having now. England wondered if his stock market (which had always been poorly made in the first place) had crashed a second time- even if he'd made a few fixes it was certainly bound to happen again, England had always figured.

"What _kind _of bad stuff?" England pressed, and helped America look for his phone on the ground. "Just calm down a minute," he said, and handed him the shiny iPhone, and he took it with shaking hands. "You're not getting anywhere like you are. What's the matter?"

America babbled a scrambled version of the call he'd gotten moments before while the driver weaved dangerously in and out of traffic, chuckling like a madwoman as she did so. England found it especially hard to concentrate on America's words as he was being thrown here and there throughout the car as she drove, but he got the general gist. The question of "who-what-where-why" came through his mind in the usual way- he liked to identify what exactly was going on in these types of situations, it helped him calm down- however, "who" was, obviously, China. "What" was probably the billions of dollars America was going to have to rustle up in payment, "where"…well, being 'places' themselves often left that question embarrassingly unanswered, and 'why'-

That was the biggest question. Why would China randomly want the money America owed him? America was in debt to _everyone-_ even him (which was sometimes brought up between them, but hastily moved on to another topic from America's side). As he scrambled the thoughts tempted to make him a little frantic as well, he hastily whispered this to America: "You might want to keep this a secret for now," he advised carefully, aware that America might have been hesitant to tell England about the call for that very reason. "If other countries find out that China's taken a bold step, you might get other demands for payment as well. Better just pay him and ask him not to talk about it."

"That'd be really nice, Britain," America said. They took a sharp turn and his head slammed into the window and England was almost tossed onto America. He hung on to the little handle above his head. "But I really don't know where I'm going to muster up all this money. I owe parts of my own country lot of money, and I'll have to drop more jobs and close more factories to get money…"

"I'd say start with that billion dollar franchise fast-food restaurant, if I were you," England mumbled, and the car screeched to a halt, followed by an assort of mechanical laughter from the driver. She turned around and grinned toothlessly at them, saying in a dirty, rough voice "Ten pounds, please." England knew America neither had dollars or pounds on him, so he paid the bill as they both jumped out of the car and stomped up to his apartment.

"Okay, that's good advice, but a lot of my food stuff gives people a place to work-" America protested.

"You're going to make people jobless either way, and then you'll have to find other places for them to work- places other countries will want to buy from. Not everybody is interested in a cholesterol-thick offer from grease-dipped chips," England sniffed.

"Fries," America corrected, and he started to call his boss a second time. "And lots of people have liked McDonalds."

"Ever since the obesity problem has gone up, not a lot are liking it much more. That's an idea- I wonder if anyone will pay you to close it."

"That's doubtful." He put the phone to his ear, and it rang, and rang, and rang for about seven times, and then some lady picked up. America introduced himself, immediately gaining the secretary's respect, and requested to speak to the president, who was apparently dealing with something to do with the educational branch, and the lady asked politely if he would call again later. England watched the ordeal as America demanded to speak to his boss a little harshly, but the lady came back with the same timid answer, and then hung up. America swore, and threw the phone down the stairs, where it shattered almost instantly, and he booked it back up the stairs. "I think I'm going to have to meet him in person."

"What? Now?" There was an honest sad tone in England's voice, full of a hint of worry that he tried to drown. He ran after America as he swung open the door to his apartment and went to England's house phone to make another call. England didn't really want to pay for another phone, considering the one America had just destroyed in a blind rage, so he tried to stop him by grabbing the end of his coat. "Listen to you," his voice was slightly harsh. "Take a minute and think. You're in trouble with Russia. Now China hates you. Ask yourself this- _what have you done. _Honestly. What could you have possibly done to make China angry?"

This was one of the rare times that America didn't have a response. He looked a mixture of sad and solemn as his mouth formed a line and he took a deep breath. He shook his head. "I don't know." He blinked, realizing that the answer he'd just given his older brother was completely true. He took a shaky breath. "I really don't know, Arthur."

The use of his real name made England twitch- he was being serious. There were times that using their human names was disrespectful, but England knew that America had referred to it so that they were speaking as humans- two people trying to make a decision. When they spoke like this, the world did not change the way it did when America and England were acting as countries, but rather, was merely altered as if two humans had made a simple decision. And yet, England didn't know what to do for America- he had wanted him to stay a while so they could amend a few things, maybe America could go home actually satisfied with a visit for once, and he'd been keen on having a good time. The irony that it had been interrupted! England wanted to scream, but he knew there was little he could do for America now, but help him book an emergency flight to Washington D.C. He sighed, and took the phone from America's hands. "I know a few companies that can get you back to your country quickly," he said in a low monotone. "Go sit down and try to relax, alright?"

America dragged himself over to one of the floral couches and collapsed on it, his heart pounding. England made a few calls, a few bribes that he'd never mention again, and then exposed himself a couple times, and after a long chat with some snotty attendant, he hung up the phone and lifted America off his feet again and the two of them ran back down the stairs and into the snowy afternoon. They hailed another cab, and what England would've gave to have the same dangerous woman again, for this person was too slow, but as England forked up another couple pounds he didn't regret it- they ran into the airport together and slammed into the desk, America pounding the surface to get the woman's attention, who slowly handed him his ticket, which he snatched so fast and put in his pocket while turning away, it was like he hadn't been there. England, naturally remembering his older-brother skills, zipped up America's jacket for him, quickly saying; "It'll be cold on the plane. Sleep as much as you can- the flight it almost six hours." He ignored the choking reaction America gave to that. "Don't fuss. You board in twenty minutes- just tell them who you are, and you won't need a passport." With that, he shoved America through the sensors, who stumbled a little, but didn't set off an alarm. As he jogged through the security line, cutting in front of foreigners and ticking a few people off, England shoved his hands nervously into his pockets until America was too far ahead to be seen. Good luck, stay safe, good-bye- all the things he _could _have said to his rebellious younger brother as he ran into another disaster had all been caught in stupid safety procedures. He always loved his younger brother and he always would, and yet, four hundreds years after he'd found the little boy, he still couldn't let him go.

_Meanwhile…_

Poland was sitting on his bed, his stomach facing the pink and lavender comforter thrown over it with a magazine under his fingers and a stick of candied strawberry-flavored lollipop stuck in his mouth. The flavor didn't quite satisfy, yet he rolled it around in his mouth as he looked through the various fashions of dresses he thought he might want to try. The flamboyant outlook of his wardrobe didn't bother anyone who really knew him- like Liet- but it definitely got him stares, which, instead of making him embarrassed, he quite enjoyed the attention. Just as he was ready to circle a flouncey pink skirt to go look at in the store later, the phone rang.

Again.

Of course Lithuania was his best friend, like, ever, but he worried over the stupidest things. He really didn't give two craps that Russia was planning to take over the word (again) because he had a secret weapon: blackmail. If Russia knew what was good for him, he'd let him and his ponies be. But Poland also really didn't need to worry about Lithuania in this mess either because, like, Russia obviously liked Lithuania too much. So, yes, Poland wasn't worried at all, even if his nation was right beside the one that threatened. He picked up the pink diamond-studded cell phone and pressed the green answer button, sighing and rolling over so he lay with his head off the bed on his back. "Like, your calls are getting really, like, annoying Liet," he said with a drag in his voice. "Russia can, like, shove his death threats up his ugly white ass. I, like, don't care."

"Lithuania can't come to the phone right now," said a voice that was clearly not Lithuania's. Poland sat up, disgusted. "What did you say about my ass?"

It took him a minute of surprised embarrassment to put back his mask of self-envelopment which always carried the voice of not caring. Well, it was the truth. He actually didn't care he just admitted Russia had an ugly butt to the very person- _someone _had to tell him eventually, right? He swallowed. "Uh, well, you, like, heard me," he said, checking his nails. They needed paint. He stood up and rummaged through his bedside table's drawer. "Why can't Liet, like, come to the phone? You didn't, like, shove him in that grimy basement with, like, that other guy, right? I mean, like, he needs a better hairdo anyway, and, like, a dirty basement isn't, like, going to help that."

"Hmm…." the voice had a bit of a crackle. Russia didn't have much phone service- Poland guessed that he was using an old house-phone. With a cord. "No, I didn't shove him in the basement with 'that other guy,' whoever you're talking about. He's right beside me. He said he was going to call you because one of your ponies died."

Obviously a lie. Lithuania probably didn't want Russia knowing he'd called him. Poland nonchalantly painted a stroke of light pink across his left thumb and sighed. "Yeah, like, totally," he lied. "Thunder, like, totally kicked it this morning, like, to the max. Why, you, like, want to eat it or something? That's what they, like, do in France, and, like, you have an alliance with France or, like, something." Poland definitely wasn't one to let down a chance to stuff Russia's face in when it came across. And France might've had style, but he was totally a ninny.

"No, I don't want to eat it," Russia said as Poland laughed loudly at his confused voice. Still laughing, Poland flopped back on the bed and cackled as much as he pleased.

"Like, listen, Russia," Poland said, holding his stomach. "I, like, really don't want to talk to you, so, like, if you don't have anything, like, _important _to say, I'm going to, like, hang up in the middle of your next sentence."

"You 'like' listen _comrade,_" the words came out of Russia's mouth thousands of miles away and still slithered like a snake out of the receiver in such a way Poland spilled the nail polish all over his flowered rug under the bed. "I've got a plan coming around, so I want you to do something for me or I _will _lock Lithuania in the basement for a week if you don't."

"Uh…." Poland swallowed again, getting up to mop the paint as best he could from the rug. "Like, Lithuania isn't scared of the dark, so, like, it's not like he's going to wet himself in there. Like, I won't, like, ever do anything for you."

"Lithuania says you like horses. What if you could get a horse out of it?"

Well, that wasn't weird at all. Poland had to laugh at that. "Like, I don't want your ugly ponies. I'm hanging up."

"America owes you money as well, doesn't he?"

If anything caught him off guard the most in the entire conversation, it was that. Poland kept his thumb on the red 'end' button still, but he didn't press it. "Duh, he, like, owes everyone, like, a billion dollars." Carefully, secretly, he reached over into his drawer again and pulled out the last billing notice he shoved everywhere. Aside from the other countries that owed him just a little money, America's was highlighted by his boss to try and get his attention. Not that Poland would ever ask America for it- he was an ass, and avoiding conversation with him was the best way to go. "Yeah, he does, like, why?" He sneered, crumpling up the paper and tossing it in an overflowing purple trash bin.

"I'm about to make him go bankrupt," Russia said, unnaturally cheerful for the subject. "I was wondering if you'd like to help me."

"What, like, make America go, like, bankrupt?" Poland said questionably. He played with his hair. "Like, I wouldn't, like, want to help you with, like, anything." He leaned back against his bed and switched his tone. "But, like, my boss really wants the money he, like, owes us, so, like, if you, like, have an idea on how I could, like, get it, that'd be, like, awesome. Like, to the max."

"I'd like you to leave him a call," Russia said. "With a week-long deadline for him to pay you."

"Hmm…" Poland was distracted by taking a tissue and painting his nails from the puddle on the ground. "Like, I could probably do that. But, like, I'm not doing it for _you. _My ponies are, like, really high-maintenance, and I, like, need money."

"Of course."

"So, like, I'll call up America and you won't, like, shove Lithuania in, like, a closet, right?" Poland said timidly.

"Maybe. We're in China right now. I do not think there are many closets for him to be shoved in right now, but I might put him in the back of our car…"

"Like, if I get a call from Liet, like, saying he was, like, put in some trunk, I'll, like, be totally ticked off and, like, won't help you," Poland snapped. "So, like, do what you want, but, like, keep that in mind."

"Sure," Russia said simply.

"Yeah, like, whatever," Poland said, disgusted, and pressed the end button. He sat on the bed cross-legged for a moment, wondering what Russia would do to Liet if he didn't drop America a call, but, then again, his boss also wanted the money from him. Not immensely, but it wasn't like Poland wanted to tick off his boss. He let out a sigh, dragged himself across the room and picked the crumpled piece of paper he'd thrown out of the trash can and unfolded it, then dialed the number and let it ring, crouching on the floor. It went to the voicemail, which was good enough, Poland sure didn't want to talk to him direction. America had an office in the Whitehouse where Poland was sure he just sat around doing nothing, so he called that phone and, not surprisingly, had to leave a message.

But far, far away from Poland in a car speeding with the fast traffic in China, Russia clapped his phone shut while a nervous Lithuania sat next to him and then he decided it was Canada's turn.

_Meanwhile…_

Prussia sat alone in the dark of the basement. There was lots of things he could do to pass the time in there, he'd told himself countless times, like count the number of bricks (again) that made up the basement (a little over two-thousand) or draw on the walls with a rock (he was running out of space) or fiddle around with the sadistic number of guns laying around on the shelves in there. It was a good way to know that times were expanding, though he still didn't know what year it was. He tapped his foot to the beat of a song he'd made up (the only lyric was 'I'm awesome') and played around with the broken bits of bricks laying around in there. In the time he'd spent, forgotten, in Russia's stupid basement he'd learned to juggle in the dark, (he could do it with his eyes closed) count to three-trillion (patiently) and how to somehow be awesome just by existing (which he'd already mastered before that, now he just perfected it). He enjoyed listening to the conversations above, especially Latvia, who didn't give a care what came out of his mouth before he said it, but after, usually he came to regret. Estonia was comical in his own manner, somehow keeping his cool together no matter what Russia said, but Lithuania…

Lithuania was a little pathetic.

However, a forth person had entered the Russia Federation about two days ago. It was Canada, which he'd heard through the door of the basement that was long since locked from the outside. Yet, never had he ever wanted to laugh and hug a stranger that he had almost no connection with, but one thing was simple in his mind: Canada was his one-way ticket out of there. But how to get him alone? The door to the basement was facing the kitchen, and people who went in there came in groups, unless to use the phone that hung there. Canada had to make a phone call sometime, right? He had to have some worried girlfriend over there, right? Oh well. He'd just wait. And as the impatience grew, finally he heard the light footsteps that he made himself memorize in the short time he'd heard them, then he scrambled up the stairs and pressed his ear to the door to make sure he was alone. Once he was positive, he leaned in and said as loud as he dared; "Hey. You. Canada."

On the other side of the wall, Canada practically jumped out of his skin. He held the light green phone in his hand with an order he dreaded from Russia that told him to call his brother and demand the money he owed him. It was a threat, rather, that he, no matter how much he didn't want to, couldn't avoid. Previously he ignored America's debt to him because they were brothers- family did stuff like that all the time, right? But now…

Well, now there was a voice coming from the kitchen basement door. He wondered how long it took a person to go clinically insane, and living there, he wouldn't have been surprised. He set the phone back in the receiver and carefully took a step toward the door. "H-hello?" His voice shook with uncertainty, for he didn't know if he'd imagined it or not, and he didn't want Estonia or Latvia hear him if he had. Russia wasn't there after he'd grabbed Lithuania and hauled him off somewhere- but having him not in the house was a big relief.

"Yeah. Hi," said the door. Or, rather, the person behind it. Canada was glad he hadn't imagined it, or maybe he still was, but it wasn't that big of a shock that Russia was holding someone hostage in the basement either. "Listen, it'd be really nice if you could open the door and let me out. I've been in here really long, and some fresh air would be really good for me, you know what I'm saying?"

"Oh," Canada wasn't about to let down an offer to help someone out. "Sure." However, when he looked at the knob, it had some hefty device covering it. When Canada tried to lift it off, the thing gave a loud shredding noise he could only guess was an alarm. He jumped back, letting it down again, and hearing the person on the other side of the door heave a sigh.

"Yeah, that's a problem," said the person from inside. "But Estonia and Latvia are out on a walk, Belarus is nowhere to be seen and Russia and Lithuania are gone. No one's going to hear it. It'll probably come off if you pull it enough."

"I don't know…" Canada said indecisively, stepping up to the door again. He sure didn't want to get in trouble with Russia, that was obvious, and he didn't know who was behind it.

"Listen, I've been in here a really long time and I'm pretty sure I smell, and it's getting kind of unbearable. If you could just take the thing off, I'd be really appreciative and stuff because that _arsloch _has been keeping me in here against my will." There was a knock on the other side to make sure he was paying attention. "Seriously," he added.

Canada nervously picked up the lever again, and the alarm screamed as he pulled and pulled, the wood cracking, the alarm threatening to break his eardrums, the door groaning and then-

_SMASH_ the alarm broke free and Canada went flying backward, pieces of the door coming with him, and then door swing open just a little before it blew open with full force, and a figure dashed out of the kitchen before Canada could even get a good look at him, though he did hear the door open and a shout of "I'M FREE, BITCHES!" as the person dashed into the snow, and Canada lay on the ground with the broken alarm on his stomach, appalled.

On the plain, running with pent-up energy that lasted several decades, Prussia was practically flying back down the path he remembered from so long ago, one thought on his mind: escape. Get to the airport, and all was well. He couldn't speak a word of Russian, but, ah, who cared? He'd deal with it later. If he had to walk back to Germany, hell, he would. The snow was deep and he stumbled many times, yet he opened his arms and shouted with laughter over and over, and when he stumbled into Moscow he leapt in front of someone who looked like they'd been waiting there for a long time, but he didn't care. "Get me to the airport. Speedy-like." The driver mumbled something in Russian, and off they went. When he pulled into a huge glass-domed airport, Prussia jumped out before he could hand the poor driver some money, and sprinted into the building. The driver didn't run after him, just made loud fussing noises and let him go. He slammed into a couple of people on the way to the desk, but when he got up to a little old lady, he rummaged through his pockets and slapped something on the counter. The old lady looked at it.

A long time ago, they never use them now, nations had special passports that would let them onto any transportation device without pay. Why should they have to- they made up the world themselves. However, they don't use them now, which was why America had so much trouble getting back to his own country, but now they use a special visa, which wasn't much different to the card Prussia had stamped on the desk. People behind him tittered, annoyed, while the old lady examined the card. She and her other workers had been taught how to identify them, and luckily enough, Prussia's card wasn't much different than the others, so she quickly printed out a ticket for him that went one-way to Berlin, and then Prussia leapt back over the line and was able to pass through security safely. Moments later he sat in a near-empty terminal, waiting for a flight that was three hours away. He didn't know what had happened since he was locked in that basement, he didn't know if he'd been forgotten, heck, he didn't even know what year it was, and yet, when the time came to board the plane he almost kissed the flight attendant who spoke perfect German and sat next to a snotty little kid and wished him a good morning.

* * *

><p><em>Wow, Poland. Honestly, his character makes me want to laugh- then I'm reminded that my blood is mostly French and Polish…um. <em>

_But, yes, the end of chapter nine, and things continue to heat up. Please, drop me a review just so I know you're reading it, and thank you! See you next chapter, hopefully!_


	10. Chapter 10

_I do not own Hetalia, the characters, events, places, anything. Hidekaz Himaryua does. I do not own anything I do not own! Thanks to all those who inspire me!_

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><p>Chapter Ten: Bankrupt<p>

It was clear that America had to dress like he meant the serious business that was going on. When he entered the office with lavish decorations, the secretary that he had spoken to and not let him get through stifled a gasp.

America just didn't wear business suits. Ever. But today he did. Maybe because he had a feeling he'd be able to talk to his boss easier if he showed up dressing like England. Of course, the secretary and anyone who had been in the office long enough to know America as a person could tell that there was a crisis. She didn't ask for his name, she knew who he was, and dialed the service number for the office of the President and held a littler conversation, then waved him through with a tight mouth.

The President in office at the time wasn't the smartest duck in the pond. Then again, there hadn't been a good president since the eighties, so to say he was less smart than the others was exaggerating a little. He wore a business suit as well with an ironed tie- _that's _what I forgot, he figured as soon as he stepped in. His tie had been shoved in the back of the drawer, and was rather wrinkled, but was a blue shade that England had picked out for him probably five years ago, saying it would make his eyes brighter. Well, it didn't matter what he looked like now, but he felt like a total douche bag standing there in front of his boss with a wrinkled tie and a suit he'd pulled out of the back of his wardrobe.

"Well?" Asked the new-ish president with authority that America wasn't sure he should be speaking with. So far in office, the new president had only put them farther in a hole of debt that was about it become a bottomless pit.

Or even more bottom…less….

As America told him the problem on hand, babbling a little because he was so worried and maybe even a little scared, but what was the most disappointing was the lack of concern the new president had on the situation entirely. As his boss turned and looked out the window, America couldn't help but say, "Dude, seriously, what I go bankrupt, I'll be bedridden for a long time and I'll be so weak I won't be able to get out of bed and then I won't be able to save Canada!"

"We can't really help Canada with this situation," said his boss with his hands clasped behind his back. He had a strong Southern accent that made his voice deep and sound like water was rolling out of his mouth and down his lips- he also had a large belly protruding from his pants that threatened to burst out of the crisp white jacket he wore. England had called him (behind America's back) the 'new' stereotypical American. Of course, the nation knew he was right, yet he wasn't about to admit it to Britain's face. The President sighed as America gasped at his former sentence. "All we can really do is hope China forgets about it for a while."

This was absurd. Absolutely crazy- expecting China to forget about America's debt was like asking England to stop hallucinating. Impossible. Who would forget anything that big in just a week. "W-We…we're not even going to _try _and pay him off?" America stammered. He'd expected to at least round up a fraction of the money he owed China and promise him the rest later…in hope he'd trust him. That obviously wasn't the president's idea as he shook his head, his fat lips solemn. "WHAT!" America couldn't help but shout and push away from his chair in shock to come standing, inches away from his boss's nose. "Dude, what if he actually does close off his imports, or he might even attack us, _what if he does that?"_

"Listen here, America," said his boss sternly, turning around so that America couldn't see his face. Which was deadly serious. "Other countries owe China money as well. I'm guessing that he won't just make an offer only to us. We won't _need _to pay him off when everyone else will be struggling as much as he is under the debt."

"Well, what happens when he only wants the money from me?" America scratched the back of his head, tittering a little. "I think I remember what his beef with me is…I think we were playing Chinese checkers and I beat him….or was that a dream? I can't remember."

The president scowled again. He dumped a file of papers in front of America with a sneer. "Those are the expenses the country as built up. We should focus on our own problems for now. Now…" he made a floppy motion with his hand to usher him out. "Leave. I really don't want to listen to you right now."

America scooped up the enormous file with his arms, watching it spill out of his arms, and scurried out of the room to dump it on the desk to the west of the President's, who slammed the door shut behind him. America didn't look through the file, he was much too nervous, and sat down in his chair with his heart pounding in his chest. He twiddled his thumbs for a little while, and then sat forward to call England to ask for some advice.

The little red light was blinking on the voicemail button. He guessed England had already called him, and was expecting a worried message, however, what he got was almost exactly the opposite.

"Like, America, this is, like, Poland. I was calling you because, like, you owe my country, like, a billion dollars and my, like, boss wants it because my ponies, like- I mean because my civilians, like, need it for healthcare or, like, something, so, like, you should, like, pay me, like, by the end of the week, or I'll be, like, pissed of. Like, to the max. Okay? Like, cool."

Well, shit. America flopped back into his chair and swore with a word he'd only heard England say when he was drunk. Well, it definitely got the secretary to acknowledge him after all. He tapped his hands on his desk. He couldn't think of anything he could do, other than borrow more money. And he couldn't ask England (that was way too embarrassing), but… China was asking for asking for a butt load of money, and there was one person America could remember that hated China enough that she might help him. He picked up the phone and dialed the number, let it ring, then she picked up.

"Hello?" It was the voice of Taiwan. America had helped her in the past, and he hoped she remembered that, and she was friends with Japan as well. He was, at least, surrounded by good relations in that part of Asian, except China and Russia of course. Why Russia was part of Asia was beyond him, and it didn't really help that his enormous country next to China's made up for not much Asian land to be compatible with. Maybe Mongolia would help.

"Taiwan?" He was surprised by the pitch in his voice. "Dude, hi, it's America."

"America? What do you need?" She didn't really sound pleased or unpleased that he was calling her, but that left room for a lot of different emotions. America was second-guessing this idea for several reasons, the biggest was because he was going against his boss's judgment. He lowered his voice a bit more.

"I know this is a really big favor, but I promise I'll pay you back once my economy's doing better, but China was being a really big douche bag and asked for his money that I owe him or else he's gonna blow off all our imports, so can I, like, borrow seventy billion dollars for a while?"

"_Seventy billion dollars?_" Taiwan sounded like she had just choked on something. She started saying something else in a different language, and America could only laugh hysterically.

"Yeah, I know it's a big amount, but you gotta help me, I'm going to go bankrupt!" America said quickly. In the other room, his boss leaned over his chair to look at him, and America squeezed the phone and turned away.

In the background, a familiar voice sounded, "Is that America?" It was Japan. He might've guessed they were on a date or something, so now he felt a little guilty, but he almost swallowed his throat when Japan asked, "Is he asking for money?"

"Yes, he's asking for money," Taiwan said. America felt his plan go up in smoke.

"Hello?" It was Japan now. Taiwan must've gave him the phone. "America-san?"

"Japan!" America was a little happy to hear from him. He didn't mean to shout, though, because now his boss stretched his neck a little more, his eyebrows going inward. It was worse than an angry look from England, and America started to babble. "I'm in some really deep shit, dude, and I really need your help, my boss it's going to help me, so somebody has to help me, I need help!"

"What kind of help?" Japan asked calmly. "I can't help you with money, Mr. America, Greece went bankrupt a little while ago, so we're helping him, there's really nothing we can do if you need money…" he didn't continue, and America nearly wailed.

America wheezed. "Well is there anyone you know who _will _help me, because I'm going to die, man!"

"Countries can't die, America," Japan sighed.

America nervously twiddled his hand on the desk. "Okay, I know that, but is there anyone you know that can lend me some money-"

Suddenly the line went dead, and the President was standing over him with his finger in the receiver. America swallowed, the President's enormous belly was almost more of a threat then his twisted face. He slapped a paper down on his desk, and started to walk away. "You've got one of those silly conferences with your friends this Wednesday. Better start getting things together."

America hung up the phone, his shoulders slouched. "Yes, Mr. President," he said quietly, then pulled the paper toward him.

_Meanwhile…_

"Germany, we're having pasta again this morning because you didn't eat any the other night and there's so much left over, and even if I think I could eat it all I really can't so I'll put some potatoes on it because I know you'll like it then, and maybe I'll chop up some of that sausage hanging in there, okay?"

Germany carefully unclamped his teeth from inside his mouth and opened his eyes. Even if he'd just woken up, he wasn't ready to take Italy for granted. "Italy," he sighed, rolling over from his side so he could look him sincerely in the face. "We don't eat pasta for breakfast. It's not good nutrition."

Italy began compulsively poking Germany on the nose from where he bent over the bed. "Yeah, but it'll get hard and gross if we leave it in there, and that'd be a big waste, Germany, and even if you throw out your underwear when it's ripped unlike Mr. Austria, we can't let food go to waste when people are over starving in China's country, right?"

Germany's eyebrows peaked, but his eyes went to the ceiling. "Alright," he gave in, pulling himself out of bed. "Next time, don't make so much leftovers. I don't want to be eating pasta for the next three days, okay?"

"Okay!" Italy ran into the kitchen and stuck the pasta in the microwave. Germany wasn't sure if that was going to work, but nevertheless, he stuck his head around the corner and said, "And don't forget to shower after breakfast, yeah?" But of course, Italy ignored him. Germany smoothed the hairs in his face back then pulled a towel out of the closet to shower himself, and stepped into the tiny shower after throwing his clothes in the laundry basket. He washed, paying close attention to the outside noises for anything relatively close to a smoke alarm, but he only heard the beep of the microwave and Italy humming as he took out the pasta. Germany stepped out, put on some clean clothes and then walked into the kitchen area. "Italy," he said expectantly. "It's your turn-" Then he stopped dead in his tracks toward the kitchen.

Italy, Germany could name a few reasons why the country would be laying on the floor by choice, but if there hadn't been a broken dish with plain noodles strewn beside him, he would've guessed that he'd just clumsily fell out of his chair. Italy didn't randomly waste pasta, and he'd more likely flail around and eat the noodles off the floor before just leaving them there like he was now. Thoughts of dreading a pasta breakfast flushed from his brain as his eyes met the vacant brown ones of the blank Italy, who wasn't responding. Italy did do some strange things in his time, but falling over and playing dead wasn't on the normal list. Germany could probably say Italy wasn't smart enough to pull a practical joke such as this, but he turned his head a little. "Italy, are you alright?" He asked, just in case, but the Italian who was still in his boxers and a loose t-shirt did not respond. Germany kicked aside the broken pieces of glass as he fell to the floor beside his friend, shaking his shoulder. "Italy," he said, feeling a little panicked. "_Italy, _this is _not _a funny joke, you know." But when he shook Italy a little too hard, something dripped from his mouth.

Blood.

Two droplets on the floor, and Germany didn't know what to do. Was someone in his house? Had Italy been attacked? What was going on? The only way to check would be the news or the internet, but Germany didn't have time for that. He looked at Italy again. "_Italy are you alright?"_ Of course he wasn't alright, Germany thought, with the more rational part of his brain. Germany flipped Italy onto his back and pressed his ear to Italy's chest. Well, his head was still beating- slowly,- and he was still breathing, shallowly, at the best. The irrational part of his brain was wedged between the notion to carry Italy all the way to the hospital, but that was a bit pointless. Nations didn't die, but he didn't know what to do for Italy or why it happened. He tried to mop up the blood from the inside of his mouth, feeling a strong fever suddenly radiating off Italy's skin. He picked him up, then laid him on the couch, and stood back. Germany wasn't the most people person, and he'd patched up Italy's wounds for him many times in battle, but he didn't know how to dress a wound that didn't seem to be caused by anything. But Italy was still unresponsive, though eventually he stopped bleeding and that wound seemed to be replaced by a mysterious bruise the size of half a golf ball on the right side of his head. Germany, shakily, wound a bandage around Italy's head, then glanced over his shoulder. Someone _had _to be in his house. Italy just didn't bruise because of falling from his chair- or at least one that big. He rummaged around his bed and took out the gun he usually slept with, and then went through the apartment and looked out the window. He checked every corner and closet twice, then, a little nervously, turned back to Italy. The only thing he could think of was the Roman Empire could've popped up for a visit like he did on random, but why he'd want to take a swing at his grandson was beyond him, so he ruled out that option and timidly sat on the floor next to Italy, who was still unconscious. He wouldn't really admit he was a bit jumpy, because when the phone rang he almost jumped three feet. He picked up the phone carefully, and greeted the caller.

However, he was not prepared for the answer that screamed at him and almost broke his eardrums.

"_WEST!"_ The scream was from a raspy, sort of taunting voice from the other end, and Germany nearly dropped the phone.

"_Schei__be_!" Germany switched ears because the other was ringing. "Who _is _this? What do you want?" Of course, the voice _did _sound a little familiar, but he knew that at least was impossible. He checked Italy out of the corner of his eye, who was still blankly staring off into space. It was a bit creepy. He probably should've closed his eyes, they were going to dry out.

The voice chuckled like it shouldn't have been a question. "Oh, please," laughed the person. "I know it's been a long time, bro, but you couldn't' have forgotten the likes of my awesomely awesome person, right?"

There was really only one person Germany could think of that held himself so highly (except maybe America) and his eyebrows arched. No, it was a joke. Someone was drunk or was playing a cruel joke. He tried again, this time more harshly _"Who is this?_"

The person sighed the other end. "West, it's your brother. _Duh."_ With Germany's shocked, blank silence, Prussia had to continue. "Gilbert Beilshcmidt? Do I have to prove it to you? When you were still really little, and I was still really awesome, I pushed you backwards in a mud puddle so it looked like you crapped yourself so that I could hit on-"

Germany's voice raised several ear-piercing octaves. "I _do not _need to be reminded of that incident, you little imposter-"

"Fine, then, I was just calling so you could give me a ride from the airport, God," Prussia sighed loudly. He then chuckled. "Guess I'll just have to take a trip to Hungary's with my newfound freedom, eheheh."

Germany wavered a little on the other end. He bit his lip. "Is it really Prussia?" He asked tentatively, gripping the phone tightly.

"The one and only! Seriously, nobody can amount to this awesomeness."

Germany took a glance back to Italy, who was still passed out. He couldn't leave Italy, that was too stressful, but if this person _was _Prussia- he wasn't ready to believe it yet- he also wasn't going to just leave him around an airport. There was also the possibility that he was inviting a total stranger pretending to be Prussia to his house, but he wasn't letting the opportunity pass. "I can't come and get you, something's wrong with Italy," he said. "But get in a cab and I'll pay the bill once you get here. If you're Prussia."

Prussia sighed. "This is unbelievable. Whatever. I'll bet you, like, ten million that I'm really Prussia."

"Yeah, yeah," Germany said, and gave the person the address. They hung up, and Germany went back over to Italy, who now had somehow developed a cut under his left cheek. Germany winced at the blood dripping down the side of his face, and patched up the wound as best he could.

What the hell was going on? Italy somehow being beat up by some mental force- no, that sounded like a silly American movie- and then some person pretending to be Prussia. Was something happening? Was he _dreaming? _Even he didn't have enough imagination to think up something this silly, so he sighed and sat back on the floor by the sofa to wait for the supposed-Prussia, and he flipped on the television. Usually he kept it on a couple of reliable news stations, so he flipped it to the BBC, only to see America's face on the front. He almost switched it off with a sneer, but the caster's voice came to his ears in time to stop him.

"…_Among the countries of Greece and Italy who are struggling financially, the country of America had been on a visit to London when he mysteriously took an emergency flight back to Washington D.C. We tried to get some feedback from our friend England, but he didn't have much to say on the subject."_ The picture switched from America to England, who was, actually, dressed in a tuxedo and standing before a press-conference. Germany blinked- this all must've happened relatively quickly, because England looked a little frazzled and maybe even a bit green as he spoke. "_Her majesty has asked me to keep what happened to America yesterday confidential," _he said calmly, reading from a little stack of cards in his hands. Even through the television, it was evident his hands were shaking. "_But when the outcome is revealed from our friends overseas, action may be necessary from our citizens in all of the United Kingdom."_ England then disappeared from the screen, and the newscaster was again there with her hands folded. "_Mr. England's words were very civil, however, his brother in Northern Ireland had a few words to say about Mr. America's visit."_ Then the television showed a shaggy red-haired man with a rough accent grinning at the television like a goon. _"Won't say this is the first time Arthur- I mean England- has been so secretive about Am-ar-ika,_" said Ireland, who seemed to be loving the attention just a little bit. "_But I _will_ say that England had his trousers in a fit for most of the time. They might've even been on backwards at one point, I dunno if I was seein' right, but there you have it-" _England's face suddenly burst into the screen as he made a shoved at his brother, who jumped away, chuckling. "_THAT'S A LIE YOU BUMBLING -" _Then the newscaster came back with a fake smile. "_And more geese have been seen flying over…_" Germany cut her off as she launched into a more boring story, and turned off the television. Obviously England's appearance on television would be seen across the globe, but there were more important things to be worried about.

Like Italy being bankrupt. Germany turned around on his knees and looked at Italy, who still didn't look much better. How did he go bankrupt? Sure the fool didn't have very good attention accuracies, but Italy surely would've been able to tell a little while ago what was happening. Right? Or had he just ignored the problem this long? And if Greece could go bankrupt as well, surely Italy could, but the thought of America loosing all his money was like some alternate universe. He practically rolled in it. Where had it all gone? Hearing about all this made Germany a little nervous about his own sake, but he knew he was coasting along a fine line like many of the rest of the countries. Germany got up and went to the freezer, then wrapped some ice in a rag to try and cool Italy down by setting it on his head. "Careless…" he mumbled, then looked out the window just as a cab pulled up to his curb. Germany watched as a white-haired person stepped out, stumbling a little. His clothes were a bit ragged and he was considerably thinner, however, Germany turned away from the window and then went down the stairs to see if the person really was his brother.

* * *

><p><em>I have NO IDEA what Taiwan and N. Ireland are like. I don't have access to the official website of Hetalia, so...I don't know. I only thought about adding them after seeing a few pictures and videos that were entirely fan made (thanks for the inspiration, guys!) but if they're really scarily out of character, please write me a review saying so and maybe what they're actually like? But, anyway, obviously I haven't kept up with the news, and the number America owes Chine may be grossly exaggerated or grossly under-exaggerated. This is clearly only loosely based on what is actually happing in real life, so if I have any facts wrong, tell me! And please review anyway!<em>


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